


Manor-isms

by tigersilver



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Head of Department of Mysteries Harry Potter, Humor, M/M, Malfoy Manor, Memories of Uni, Neolithic art, Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, OCs - Freeform, POV Alternating, Paleolithic art, Sentient Places, Sex and Food, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Slow To Update, Study of Ancient Runes (Harry Potter), Symbols, Unspeakable Harry Potter, astronomer draco malfoy, sharing a flat, they were roommates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:54:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 37,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27000019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigersilver/pseuds/tigersilver
Summary: They say places have feelings.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 38
Kudos: 22





	1. Places Have Feelings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bloviate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloviate/gifts).



> This is a riff off a fic I wrote for a recent fest and ended up not submitting as I used a different version entirely. But I liked very much the concept of comfortable relationships, of ones that matured slowly, with trust built up in slow increments and love unfurling at its own fine pace. And I liked the idea that not all such relationships 'require' certain events or milestones, that progress lays in the individual perception of itself, that choice is always, always an option, and one that should be exercised more often and freely. That one size never fits all, nor should it. This is a slow ode to love, I suppose. As with love itself, it's a tale that will experience many moods and many varying views. I hope you enjoy it. That's really the reason I'm writing it, you see. _I enjoy it._

They say Wizarding houses have feelings. They say they’re semi-sentient. They _say_ \--and they should know, really--that Wizarding homes are remarkably opinionated concerning what’s best for their chosen Wizards and Witches. They say that, Draco knew, and he certainly wasn’t about to argue because there was certainly a markedly different atmosphere hanging about his Manor, these days. 

Maybe it was the fact that the corridors and staircases of his perfectly renovated, completely cleansed, void of all Dark Magic, fully equipped with the latest Wizarding-adapted Muggle mod cons, bloody silly-arse ancient old fucking family mansion had taken to steering Draco's steps willy-nilly to the Nursery at least thrice daily.

That is, the newly refitted, absolutely darling Nursery suite, which sported both the lovely old heirloom Malfoy cradle and a spanking brand-new Muggle-adapted Spello-O-Mind baby monitor, and abounded with a symbolic yet soothing updated décor of great fecundity, all comprised of various flora and fauna, Magical and Muggle, gaily frolicking and disporting, sprouting and blooming and fucking bounteously fruitful.

Morning, noon and night Draco saw the damn Nursery suite and each time it seemed to be even more insidiously inviting, somehow. 

Those Kneazle kittens, for example, and their adorable antics as they gamboled about on the wallpaper, playing with their painted Charmed yarn balls.

Those Nymphs and those Satyrs, eyeing each other with lascivious interest from their hiding spots 'neath trees and vines overladen with--cough, cough--grapes, pomegranates and fecking golden apples. 

Those wee ducklings, all golden and fuzzy, paddling about their wee painted pond and quacking happily. Egads.

But the theme was by no means contained solely in the one wing of Malfoy Manor. Oh, no. Not a bit of it. 

It was just a little bit evident in the Larger Library, which had grown itself a wall-full of books on parenting and child care, nestled alongside another wall packed tight with every hue of the Fairy Book series plus Beedle the Bard _and_ a startling new set of volumes by some Muggle author named Suess! 

Likely it lurked unsuspected even in the more deserted hallways and public rooms, the ones Draco hardly ever had reason to visit, given the pervasive scents of talcum powder and sweetened hot milk which crept from beneath long shut doors and the preponderance of randomly displayed portraits of every single one of all Draco's multitudinous ancestors and relations, portrayed from the days when they were but infants and toddlers.

It may've been that. 

Perhaps it was the Gardens that really clued Draco in, absolutely blanketed as they were in baby’s breath and lavishly scented orchids and passion lilies, whilst all the poor Bachelor's Buttons had died off.

Or perhaps it was the stylish yet devilishly safe new play areas he’d discovered randomly distributed around the grounds during his morning and evening constitutionals. Sand and shallow waters in the one sunny place, a perfect array of what Draco immediately knew were ‘climbing trees’ in another shady glade. The child-sized maze made of honeysuckle and thornless yellow roses in yet a third, all a’flutter with beneficent, non-stinging insects. The mini-broom arena, the play castle, the nearly perfect replica of a Muggle play yard. 

Perchance it was the abrupt change made to the supper menu, which had veered wildly away from the lighter Continental fare Draco favoured to a diet mostly featuring oysters, steak, salmon, walnuts, red wine and cress. 

Secretly, and only in the privacy of his own mind, Draco admitted he was fucking terrified to even venture down into the cellars or up to the attics, for fear of what new horrors he might discover. 

Suffice to say, it was all very Magical, this change to his old familiar home, and it shrieked of manipulation at the highest level. The Manor clearly wanted Children, it wanted them very badly, and Draco was deemed the One to Provide Them. 

But Draco resisted. He was no coward, not he. 

“Oh bah,” he testily informed the Nursery every single morning. “This again? Look here, I’m only twenty-five, you know. And no real prospects, either, so you’re a bit out of touch. This is so not happening. Please, give it a rest, do.”

Adamantly, the Manor retaliated at every instance of Draco’s adamant denial.

The campaign started small, by first reprovingly installing an extremely upscale padded changing table and then shortly thereafter accelerated, via enlarging the already voluminous toys-and-books collection exponentially until an entire separate Children’s Library elbowed itself into existence, right next door to the Nursery proper.

"Still, no." Draco turned on his heel and stomped off, muttering darkly. "Stupid House." 

Then came the Playroom. Tea sets and Potions sets, brightly coloured blocks and intricate puzzles, Gobstones and Muggle board games, Martin Miggs and _Hogwarts, A History, Junior Edition_. The Child's Dressing Room turned up after one particularly anger-filled venting on Draco’s part, and contained suitable garb for every age of any child, from squalling newborn to stylish teen.

"Seriously, you're mad, alright? I'm not--repeat, not!--having a child!" Draco shouted, highly irked to be fetched up to the entry to the Mansion's latest addition: the Sports Room. Billiards, trikes, an entire funhouse arcade in miniature, ensconced right in the midst of his formerly staid marble manse. "Not of my own, at least. Leave off, I say! I'm warning you!" 

It was a bit horrible, all of it. The transformation. The feeling of being a stranger in his own home, being poked and prodded about by an unseen but powerful force. 

Not that Draco didn't care for children. He rather did, actually, and had an excellent relationship with his young cousin Teddy. Had had himself an excellent relationship with young Teddy’s godfather too, but that was well besides the point, given that Potter was not in the picture, as it were. And not that the Manor wasn't meant to hold a family made of up literally scads of young people--because it was, too, and especially after Draco, his mum and his mum’s professional Magical Renovators were through with it. It could contain a whole village, not that the prospect of that was especially appealing.

It wasn't even that Draco wasn't interested in having a child of his own, because he wasn't averse to the idea, not really. He supposed he likely should, one day. Maybe. 

It was more that...it happened to have not happened yet, all those decision-and-choices-and sometimes sheer dumb luck events, all those necessary steps that led up to such a momentous, life-changing event, and Draco really didn't appreciate being rushed into it by his own fucking house. None of that had happened, and Draco was perfectly fine with it. He didn’t--and he informed his Manor of this in no uncertain terms--feel the lack. 

But it was grueling, facing down his house day after day, and feeling stymied perpetually. For there seemed to be nothing the done about it; his Manor had made up its incorporeal mind. 

“Oh, Merlin, Mum,” he moaned over the floo to his mother, who was living permanently at large, and currently gallivanting through Tuscany with Blaise’s newly widowed mum for company. “It’s been a month now already. What am I to do?” 

“Oh dear, darling,” Narcissa smiled, looking years younger after her recent months of sunny holiday, “I am afraid that it’s no use, really. The Manor’s got a mind of its own, you know. Always has, always will. Doubtless it only wants what’s best for you. Doubtless you’ve been terribly lonely, rattling ‘round there all on your own.” 

“Well,” huffed Draco, “I don’t see how an outright flouting of my wishes is in any way to be considered ‘what’s best for me’, Mum. It should know by now that I’ve not had a sha--er! A date!” Draco blushed and backpedaled furiously; his Mum, quite happily divorced, was still a bit of a stickler. “A romantic partner, I meant, for blo--er, _ages_. I mean, I don’t know how it expects me to produce children without one, do you? I'm not signing it up for that as a singleton. I know my limitations, believe me.” 

“Of course not, love,” his mum laughed merrily, brushing Draco’s confession aside. Her blue eyes gleamed, made eerily purple by the sparks from the spitting flames. “Now, have you floo’d Harry recently? Does he even know about this?” 

Draco narrowed his eyes and cocked his chin, regarding his beloved mater suspiciously. “No,” he replied flatly. “Why should I, Mum? What’s Harry going to do about the situation? Come and be all heroic and scold it soundly? Chant Runes at it politely and request it cease-and-desist? Hardly!” 

“Hmmm,” his mother hummed soothingly, maddeningly nonchalant and waving off his question with a careless flutter of fingertips. “Maybe, maybe not; who is to know with Harry, yes? He's made for a perfectly adequate godfather all these years.” 

Draco glared at her suspiciously. One would think one’s own mother would be more sympathetic? 

"He's not available, Mum. You know that."

“He's returned, dear. A month ago, is it?" His mother tapped an elegant forefinger against an equally elegant dimple. "Something like that."

"If he is, he's working," Draco frowned dourly, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. "And thus unavailable."

"Hmm. Still, darling, I do think you should floo him,” she insisted. “At the Ministry. Leave a message if naught else. It’s been simply ages since you two spent any decent amount of time together and I know you’ve missed him. He might even be able to offer you a few suggestions--or perhaps that dear Hermione Granger-Weasley will. She’s incredibly competent, as we all know, and I’ve heard from a little bird lately that Grimmauld Place has not been the easiest to manage either. A bit of a sticky wicket going on there, from all I’ve heard tell.”

“What? Since when?” Draco demanded, diverted from his own troubles. “Mum, he’s not said a word to me about that. Well, it's more he's not said a word to me about _anything_ lately, since he's literally not allowed right now. Who did you hear this from? What 'bird'? Are you certain?” 

“Of course I am, darling,” his mother tinkled sweetly, shaking her sun-kissed head. “My 'bird' is highly vouched for. He's most definitely in Town, even if you've not heard official word of it yet. Strange, that. I'd have thought--"

"Not 'strange' at all, Mother," Draco interrupted quickly. "He's an Unspeakable, remember?"'

"Yes, of course, son. Still, as I mentioned, Harry at least will lend you a sympathetic shoulder in my absence, dear one; you really ought at least Owl him--oh! Speaking of? Have I told you we’ve been invited to stay with an old school friend of ours on her lovely large yacht? She keeps it in Monaco, right in the harbour. UnPlottable, naturally, given the amount of Muggles, but still, it should be quite, quite the Season in the Wizarding district. I'm afraid I'm vastly looking forward, darling. This has been exactly the sort of holiday I was hoping for, after that unfortunate business with your father. I do hope you don't blame me for making my escape, dear one. I am, I confess, feeling an entirely new Witch these days." 

“No, of course I don't! Why would I ever? Yes, Mum, sounds grand. Go on, do.”

Draco sighed silently and nibbled upon his lip as she nattered on and on about all her sightseeing and shopping trips, gamely summoning a polite air of enthusiasm. He slumped slowly down on his hearth rug as she related various marvels of her holiday, shoving a tasselled silk bolster against his aching back and shifting about to make himself comfortable as one could be with only a couple of spindly chair legs for support. This news about Harry was startling to say the least. And vaguely worrisome. Not that Harry wasn't generally at least a little worrisome, at least in Draco's experience. 

"Coo-ee!" his mum called out suddenly, startling him. "You look a bit at sea, Draco. Did you hear what I just said? You will contact Harry, won't you? I realize it's been a long time for you two, darling, but I'm sure it's only that he's just been re-assigned. I hardly imagine he'd slight you, my sweet." 

“Of course, Mum; I’m listening." Draco sat up straight abruptly and nodded dutifully, recalled to his vaguely uncomfortable present. "Every word. Yes, I promise I’ll Floo him. And I'm sure he wouldn't ever, Mum. He's likely run off his feet, settling in. Now what was that about the Prince’s cousin? Oh, another distant Black relative...ah, right, right. Fascinating, naturally. Yes, yes, of course. Please tell me more.” 

Truth was, it had been two years since he'd seen Harry to speak to, face to face, and two years was very long time, especially with no contact. Even between mates as good as he and Harry had been, back in their university days. 

Truth was, he’d spent a rather difficult morning coaxing the Abraxan foals through some much-needed halter training, following by an even more strenuous afternoon in the Home Farm Apiary, coaxing the famous Malfoy Bees to shift hives whilst not stinging him silly. He’d spent a large part of the wee hours the night previous tracking a lovely newly discovered nebulae and recording it on both his Magical and Muggle cameras for the greater good and further research purposes of both the Wizarding and Muggle scientific communities. Naturally, he’d rejoiced he’d so much data to submit to the journals he regularly wrote for but the the compilation promised to be mind-numbing. Truth was, he was bloody knackered, and his stupid house was not helping. 

His mother wasn’t helping much, either, insisting he contact Harry. Draco was not accustomed to dumping his own personal issues into the unsuspecting laps of his good friends. Not even as dear a friend as Harry was. Had been. Was still, hopefully. 

Two years of zero contact was a rather long time, really. All things considered. It felt a bit awkward. Just popping his head through the hearth as if it were nothing. 

Perhaps, just maybe, Draco had entertained the fleeting thought of reaching out to Harry all on his own, without any motherly prompting, and then again, maybe he hadn't, not at all. He shook his head over the idea of it, shying away from all the sticky implications of asking Harry, of all people. But either way, he still wasn’t about to mention to his mother that that ‘fleeting thought’ had become more attractive daily. He could use a decent mate, right now. One who knew him, and wouldn't take the piss over his house going barmy on imaginary babies. 

"My friend, Amelida? She's to be racing several of her young mares this year, Draco. They'll use the Grand Prix Circuit, of course, for convenience. Fly right above it, those dashing creatures, from what I'm given to understand, and the dear Muggles shan't see a thing due the Notice-Me-Nots. Quite exciting! I do think you might consider taking a Portkey over; have a little hols of your own. I'm sure she shan't mind another guest coming aboard, darling. Do consider it, will you?" 

“You don’t say. Really? Sounds smashing." Draco blinked at the mental picture, momentarily feeling slightly appalled at all that might go dreadfully wrong should the spells fail. "Right. Of course, Mum, but you know I've always mounds and mounds of work, right here at home. Hard to steal away.”

Harry, Draco was proud to say, though he wouldn’t ever, really, not to his face at least, was a very good egg, and damned good Wizard to have at one’s back in a tight corner. Draco honestly adored the idiot and would very likely duel to the death any fool stupid enough to plot harm against him. 

"Of course you do, and you manage very well at it, but even so. A holiday won't kill you, son. Do as I told you and floo Harry, will you? I'm sure between the two of you you'll find some solution for the Manor's behaviour and then you'll be free to have a break." 

“Yes, Mum. I said I would, didn’t I? First thing tomorrow. But don't count on me for the races, please.”

His mum frowned, looking disappointed for a moment before her expression cleared. 

"Oh! I was forgetting. With Harry home again, you shan't want to be gallivanting abroad, will you? Silly me." 

"No, Mum, it's not quite like that--of which you are aware, so stop implying things--it's that I have a great deal of work before me and I really cannot just up and leave it at the drop of a broom bristle. Not that it won't be nice to see Potter again, of course." 

Because of course it would. It would be smashing, actually. Go out to pubs, have a few drinks, perhaps even go clubbing? By Merlin, that was a much more attractive prospect than Portkeying his solitary arse off to Monaco to watch a herd of flying horses go 'round about over some twisty Muggle streets in the company of his mum and her bosom pals. Harry was also and incidentally a damned decent wingman, which he’d proved over multiple times during their Flamel years. Well, at least until he’d up and been recruited by the Ministry and before Draco had become more involved with Theo, but all that really wasn't to the point, these days. Nor was pulling.

Draco hadn’t been actually fibbing when he’d informed his Manor he had no prospects, romantically. Draco wasn't much for the social circle even at the best of times and, besides, all his friends--and all Potter’s--were off living their own lives, two plus years on from uni. Three, really, for them. And Potter, damn his eyes, was presumably still simply off Elsewhere Undisclosed, doing Unspeakable things entirely Unspeakably. It made it rather difficult, keeping close. 

Draco sniffed, having waved his mother off for the evening. She'd some sort of drinks do to dress for; he'd be forcibly dragging himself away from the bounds of the Nursery wing e're long, no doubt, having been waylaid on the way to his dinner. 

But needs must, as they say. He would Floo Potter. Just...not yet. Potter might possibly be home again, but Potter might also be just as Draco told his mum he was: totally rushed off his feet and buried up to the neck in work, after being away for 17, 520 hours, give or take a few. 

It was a damned long time, subjectively, with not even an Owl or a floo call to break up the monotony. Very awkward, yes.

In any event, Draco wasn't afforded the luxury of a spare moment to make any sort of move to call for aid, not even from an old friend. His foals were wildly recalcitrant, the Bees were irate and misbehaving and half of his precious films of the pretty nebulae had been ruined in a silly mishap and had to be reshot and recast, causing several more nights of mostly lost sleep. 

“Damn it, fine, you stupid obstinate old house!” Draco swore, nearly a full week later, when the Manor once again presented his person at the doorway to the Nursery. He slammed the insistently open door shut again, kicking it for good measure, and pointed his wand tip at the painted panels of rosy-cheeked cherubs with a heavy scowl. "I'm through! You hear me?" 

It was up to six times daily now, not three, and Draco dreaded the number seven. So entirely too symbolic, that number. He could no longer reach the Apiary or the Stables without tripping, sometimes literally, over some new folderol for a child. The stairwell up to his observatory atop the North Wing apse was clogged with the scattered accoutrements of infants and quite hazardous in the dark.

“I’m bloody done! Up to my fucking eyeteeth! I’m calling in the Unspeakables! They’ll sort you out, see if they don’t! Well, _one_ of them will, damn it to Merlin, and his name's Harry Potter! This shall not continue, not on my watch!!” 


	2. People, Too

Harry had become rather adept at counting, although that was only a side benefit. He'd become far more facile at puzzling out meanings from what, to an untrained eye, all too often appeared like the scratchings of enormous viciously taloned birds. But that was generally the ones on the Stones, standing. There were plenty of other sorts of runes, some to be found scribed in ancient reed or skin parchments, some to be found on tomb or cavern walls (those two ofttimes one and the same) and some which were only but fair copies of long-lost runes, meticulously transcribed, culled from scholarly Wizarding writings, grimoires and journals. 

'Unknown'-'Runespoor'-'Demiguise', for example, was approximately the number of days counting from when he'd first departed the shores of his homeland and begun his Journeymanship in earnest till his exhausted but triumphant arrival back at Grimmauld. Two years. That exact same set (familiarly 'Giant Squid'-'Three-Snake'-'Horus-Headed') was--not uncoincidentally--the number of days Harry had dearly felt the absence of his best mate and mainstay at Flamel University, Draco Malfoy. Well, a little more than that, but it would do in a pinch to express an expanse of time that felt both endless and all too short. 

Time, like Ancient Runes, was Mystery with many possible interpretations. Or so Harry had concluded, possibly whilst he was in Norway or maybe it was the second time he found himself staring at the same very large red rock and explaining patiently to the pushy gentleman who'd accompanied him there that these were not technically 'runes' so much as they were the art and history and sacred property of the natives and that the pushy gentleman and his equally pushy government owed the natives a massive apology--plus the promise to fuck right off and not bother DoM or the natives ever again. 

Harry bit his lip and jotted down a highly probable interpretation of a not-uncommon runic sequence, before sitting back to ponder whether it was worthwhile to note as well the other, less likely translations. He hummed after a moment, satisfied with his work, and spent a stolen moment rolling out the tension in his neck and shoulders before taking up his wand to charm the parchment into an official departmental envelop and send it off on its merry way to the Post Room. 

A month more had passed since he'd come back to Grimmauld--he grabbed at the next file in the stack and pulled it toward him, reaching for his battered copy of _Spellman's Syllabary_ as he did so--and he'd yet to find a single solitary moment that seemed quite 'proper' enough to correct his disquieting feeling of missing Malfoy and simply Owl the bloody man asking for a meet-up. 

It was a bit of quandary, Harry thought unhappily, his eyes busy with scanning through another enquiry, this time from Newfoundland. 

"Oi, Harry," Millie hailed briskly, trotting into his office with yet another heap of that last category, the ones that were only fair copies. "Incoming, mate." She dumped them unceremoniously into a spare empty rubbish bin and straightened up to grin engagingly at him, dusting off her hands. "Sorry about this lot, but it's all priority. I did my best to bump it back down to merely urgent but that elderly chap from Antwerp was insistent. You want me to bring you a bacon butty? I'm nipping out in a moment." 

"Ta, Mills," Harry replied, glancing up and giving her a weary but grateful smile. "That would be brilliant, if it's no trouble."

"Wouldn't have offered it it were," Millie said smartly, making feet for the door. "Must beat the early rush, though. Cheers, Hars. Back in a tick." 

Shaking his head to clear it, Harry settled back down to his work. A peaceful quiet quickly descended with Millie's exit for the Department of Mysteries was still mostly deserted. Even Unspeakables had to sleep sometimes, Harry knew, and half six in the morning was generally dead quiet. Which was exactly why Harry loved it so much, really. 

“Hsst! Potter!”


	3. Surface Tension

“Hsst, Potter!”

Draco tentatively popped his head through unfamiliar office Floo and glanced curiously about him.

He’d risen awfully early to Floo the Ministry Directory because Harry had always, always spent ghastly long hours of his time buried in his miniscule cubby of a work-space deep in the bowels of the Unspeakable section. Or rather, he had, for the all-too-brief span after they'd matriculated and before he'd faffed off to parts unknown. Had practically lived there, and if Draco had any chance of actually finding Harry Potter again back on English soil, it was best to begin his search at the Ministry.

“Er? You about? May I come through?” 

A familiar figure, hunched assiduously over a beautiful old wooden desk nearly as wide as a barn door, looked up immediately and hastily flung down his tattered quill. 

“Oi, Malfoy! Draco _bloody_ Malfoy, as I live and breathe! You bloody buggering git, where’ve you _been_? Merlin!”

Clearly startled by Draco's interruption but beaming full-face and ever so brightly nonetheless, like a very messy-headed beacon, Potter popped up to his feet, rising like Venus on the proverbial from the mountainous miscellaney of papery ephemera, all strewn across the surface of an impressively gold-embossed leather blotter.

"Come in, come through!" he ordered, unceremoniously casting down the Spellman's he'd been clutching in his other hand and then employing both of them to beckon at Draco like some maddened symphony conductor. "What are you even waiting for?" 

"I may, then? You're not stuck in the thick of it?"

Draco hesitated uncertainly, eyes widening as he took in the heaps and stacks of Owls and envelops, scrolls, texts, rocks and whatnot not only on the desk itself but also stacked haphazardly to either side of it.

"You look quite--quite--" He shrugged helplessly, peering at Potter, who was apparently unfazed by the state of his workplace. 

Potter snorted, bursting out in a peal of laughter. He ran a fast palm through that hair, ruffling it into a state of charming abomination. 

“Yes, of course you may, silly twat! It’s been a full month already; I’ve not seen you at all! More, probably. Never mind all this"--he waved carelessly at the ominous amount of paperwork surrounding him--"it's totally normal. And--and why the _hell_ are you whispering at me? Is something wrong, Draco? Are you _alright_ , mate?” 

“Shhh!”

Draco cast a nervous glance behind him, always mindful of the childish portraits of his ancestors gazing down from the walls of his study.

His traitorous ancestors, who were apparently in full cahoots with his damned house. It must be a conspiracy, Draco believed, as all the normal adult portraits had been mysteriously removed and replaced with versions of the same august persons, excepting painted from when they were but puling infants and tattling toddlers. Great-great-great-Uncle Gaulderoi, for instance, had one hellacious set of lungs on him and he didn't hesitate to use them when wanting his painted bottle. And Great-great-great-etcetera Auntie Angharad was forever babbling on and on about her toy knight. Perry, was it? Something like that. In any case, they all became quite unsettled whenever Draco chanced to leave the Manor and made no bones about willingly ratting him out to the Evil Nursery! 

"Er...what now?" 

“Keep mum, will you? I don't want it--them--to hear you right now, Potter! It’ll make it even worse!” 

Ducking furtively, Draco darted through the flames, briefly flailing about and then falling to his feet gracefully enough as he stepped out upon the Ministry side, the Manor safely behind him. 

“What? Make what worse?” Harry demanded curiously, bustling 'round his desk and skirting the Runes detritus to grasp at Draco’s leading hand and give a good hearty shake, then pulling him firmly into the room proper. “You--you're so. So _mental_ , just like always. Never mind that, though. Merlin, but I have _missed_ your pointy face. Come here, then.” He yanked an unresisting Draco into a brief one-armed embrace. "It's so brilliant to see you at last."

"Oof! Uhhhng! Ha-Harry!"

Leaving Draco go as abruptly as he'd so tightly hugged him, Potter fell back a pace, grinning like a maniac, and look vastly pleased with life entire.

"...Good to see you, too," Draco said faintly, hastily recalling his manners. "You're, um, certain it's alright?" 

"Positive!"

But Potter was in action again, seizing Draco's wrist and dragging him straight to one of the maroon upholstered armchairs stationed before his desk. 

"Here, come on. Sit. Talk to me. How are you really?"

The quality of Potter's gaze shifted, becoming a little more careful and several degrees more intense. Draco shivered just bit, under it. 

"Well!" he huffed, settling down leisurely and shifting his bum about on the cushiony surface, his face twitching itself into a reluctant grin. "Fine, thanks for asking. And I suppose you really _have_ pined after me, then. Merlin, Potty. I think you've shattered my one rib." 

"Bosh! And of course I have!" Potter remonstrated, keen eyes telling over every part of Draco's person intently, from polished boot tips to buttoned-up collar. "Ah, you look the same, bloody wanker. Natty as ever and still smirking. Fuck, but's a treat to have you here. Tea, was it? Or do you need something stronger? You're a bit ghoulish, for all your smart robes. Are you sleeping? Oh, hang on.” 

He snapped his fingers. Immediately both a tea tray and a drinks tray appeared upon the gleaming polished surface of a nearby sideboard, the crystal and porcelain clattering gently as they settled upon a pristine linen cloth.

"Here we are, then. Tea or mead, mate. Unless you prefer a coffee?"

"No, neither. I'm alright, really."

Draco shook his head in the negative and occupied himself discreetly glancing about, feeling more than a little impressed. Potter's new space in the Ministry was capacious and decidedly elegant, a far cry from the claustrophobic cubicle his friend had been assigned when he'd begun his employment. 

"You sure?" 

“Ta, yes. Ahem,” he coughed gently, settling more fully into the comfortable cushioning and crossing a leg over a knee. He clasped his hands upon his kneecap, meeting Potter's enquiring glance briefly. "Thanks, though. Just...not why I'm here."

New specs; quite stylish, Draco noted, letting his gaze slip down and proceeding to conduct his own sly once-over: Same old hair; perhaps a shade longer. A marvellously tailored suit beneath the departmental robes; likely Italian. Not a single extra ounce on the man beneath the suiting either; Potter was as wiry and leanly built as always.

Potter never shifted under his scrutiny for an instant, but simply stood right before Draco and went on gazing down at him bright-eyed, clearly awaiting some sort of explanation.

"Ah." Draco sighed. That wasn't happening quickly, unfortunately. Kneazles had seemingly stolen his tongue, for all the good it doing him. "Hmm."

After another too-long moment Draco averted his eyes, idly examining his hands where they lay clasped. They seemed oddly nervous and somewhat artificially posed so he promptly folded them neatly in his lap, uncrossing his legs and sitting forward. The armchair was comfortable enough but _he_ wasn't particularly. Not in his own skin, at least. His quest for assistance with the Manor suddenly struck him as frivolous, here in this place and seated like a supplicant before this familiar stranger.

"Um?"

Draco bit his lip. 

"Draco?" Potter prodded again, quirking up a dark eyebrow and pursing his lips. "Alright there?"

“Yes, fine, splendid!" Firming up his courage, Draco looked up, a hint of challenge in his elevating chin. The words scrambled themselves together, rushing from somewhere, doing their damn best to come bursting out of his mouth in a muddle. "Why wouldn't I be? Right, yes, it's very nice to see your speccy phiz at last and all that, but. But I--"

"But?" Potter echoed. "You?"

"Oh!" Draco flapped hands at the room, giving it up as a bad job. "Never mind, will you?" He glanced around the office again, searching for any old thing as a distraction. "Ah, Potter! Meant to say, pretty posh digs, these. What is it exactly you do here again? Because this cannot be the norm for neophyte."

"Er, Draco?" Harry looked well and truly puzzled. "What?" 

"I mean."

Knowing full well he'd flubbed his first fence, he fell back on to the old familiar and tried for a teasing tone. Perhaps it was too soon to broach the subject of his Manor's misbehaving. Perhaps this was a foolish venture entirely and he'd really only come to the Ministry because Potter hadn't come to him and he was indeed feeling vaguely slighted, just as his mum said? But, fuck's sake, they'd only just met again, and it had been quite a long while. It had to be far too soon for him to beg Harry's aid with his hellish Nursery. Better to delay, really. Too much too soon was a rookie mistake, a common error that could have dire consequences. As an amateur status apiarist and airborne equine trainer, Draco definitely understood that part. 

"I _meant_. Mysteries _is_ very well funded, we all know that; Hermione's said so," he soldiered valiantly on, only slightly quailing as Potter's expression grew more confused by the second. "And Masters of Ancient Runes command a quite high salary, naturally enough. Even by Goblin standards. But?”

Draco gestured 'round, indicating the scattering of expensive artistic porcelain doodads, preserved floral arrangements, assorted artwork displayed on the pale damask walls and the gleaming furniture, all dark cherry wood and carven runic symbols, which called out the intricately lush carpet under their feet rather beautifully. It framed Potter too, and seemed to somehow suit him. 

“Even for a past Saviour there’s got to be some limits, you know?" Draco laughed quickly, nervously. "Ah, Circe's skivvies, is that a genuine Picasso over there?” 

“Oh, shut it,” Harry said fondly, stepping back at last out of Draco's personal bubble. He grinned, a bit cat-in-the-cream, his eyes sparkling with amusement behind his stylish specs. "Don't take the piss, you. I like my new office, ta very much. It's nice, right?"

He moved to casually lean up against his desk, the very image of success, what with his well-cut clothes and his little smirk, and regarded the painting, which was especially blue and only a little melted-looking. At least for a Picasso. 

"So, is it?" Draco insisted. Staring avidly at Potter as if this were the sole and only reason he'd come to call and nothing else had ever mattered more than Potter's reply. " _Your_ painting."

“A Picasso? It is, yes," Potter smiled affably enough. "It was a recent gift; thanks for asking. Grateful client, very American, you know how they are. He bestowed it upon me personally and I couldn't refuse. Not politic, right?"

"Of course not!" Draco agreed, scandalized. "Those people get very shirty. I should know. I correspond with the American MagiAstronomy Association regularly."

"They do, " Potter nodded wisely. He took a deep breath, straightened his posture. "Right. And, as it happens, and remember I’ll likely have to kill you if you breathe a word to anyone, even your own mum, I’ve been triply promoted since, direct from the field." He shrugged casually, sending the fine fabric creasing across his shoulders and torso, as if this were nothing, just a trifle noted in passing. "Before you even ask, Mysteries operates a little differently than most departments, alright. So...Don't ask, mate. But it's why I'm here now. In Ancient Runes Head Office. It's mine, you see. I'm the Head High Muckity-Muck Thingie. The boss." 

"What, _really_?" Draco asked, instantly diverted. "That's absolutely brilliant, Harry!" 

Harry nodded, his smile a little more pronounced and somehow genuinely easier, as if he meant it this time. Truly chuffed.

"Hmm, yeah. Reassigned to Town, too, on a much more permanent basis, and a full month sooner than I thought I'd be, too. Bit brilliant, I think."

"So that's what happened," Draco murmured softly. "Mum was correct, then. Or her 'bird' was."

"Bird? What bird, mate?" Potter arched a wary eyebrow, cocking his head enquiringly. "Are you sure you're sleeping enough lately?"

At Draco's impatient frown and chin-jerk assent, he carried on.

"Right, yes. So, anyway, I've been fathoms deep in the departmental backlog ever since, actually. Me and ah, the others. Who work here with me, that is. Haven't had a free second to call my own, not since I landed, other than a lightning visit with Teddy and Andromeda and lunch here in the café with Ron and Hermione. Everyone's so busy; I'd rather assumed you must be too. But Draco? What's with all the 'shhh-shing'? Why were you acting so strangely when you came through just now? Hermione told me there's been some rumours of trouble with the Manor but I never heard a word more about it, not even from Andromeda, and I'd've thought she'd have known if there was, because of being sisters with your mum. Is there? What’s it about? Is it a leftover Curse? Have you Owled Bill? I thought you'd have Flooed _me_ by now. At the very least, mate; it's been a month already, you know," he chided, wrinkling his faded scar in disapprobation. "Exactly how bad is this 'trouble', really? Are you in any real danger?”

"Hah!"

Draco snorted, instantly offended. 

“No! Of course I'm not in danger. It's my own house, isn't it? And don't be a berk. You and your bloody ‘I’ll have to kill you’ speech, Potter.” Draco shook his head in mock disdain. “So passé. Of course I shan’t say anything about your secret promotion to anyone; I barely leave the Manor. Who would I even tell?” He blinked fast, considering, and then gave a sharp nod. “Ah! Maybe that’s the problem! No one _to_ tell. I'm left only with the sorry likes of you to talk to, more's the pity.” 

“Wanker." Potter grinned. "Yes, alright, but what's going on? Tell me what? You’ve not actually _said_ , you know, not in so many words. You must, you know. You aren't allowed to leave me in suspense like this. You know my love-hate relationship with mysteries, mate. Oh! Perhaps we do need the tea, after all! Um, cuppa? Biscuits? They’re your favourite. Had them laid in as soon as I took over. Choco mallow. Tunnock's, even.” 

Draco winced, waving off the offer. His stomach roiled at the mere idea. Raw oysters on the half shell and champagne had been his very odd breakfast, courtesy his heir-obsessed house, and tea, he was fairly certain, was for once not the great panacea it was made out to be. Ugh! 

“Oh, no, but thanks all the same. I really cannot manage another thing; I'm so sorry. Another time, I promise. However. Since you insist, then.” He regarded his friend gravely. "There is actually a specific reason I called, yes. It is to do with the Manor, yes, just as Hermione told you, but it's not a curse, so much. It's a condition, rather."

"A 'condition'?" 

"Yes," Draco sneered, disgruntled just thinking his new 'improved' Nursery. "And I'd very much like it to fucking _stop_." 


	4. It's a Date!

"What?" Harry demanded intensely. "Are you talking about? Seriously, Draco, you're starting to frighten me now. A 'condition', you say? What does that even mean? Really, you need to rest more. I was always telling you that, back at uni, remember?"

"No, no," Draco chuckled breathlessly, and fiercely remonstrated himself internally not to spring up and start pacing about Harry's office. "It's not serious, but then again it _is_ , rather, and yes, of course I'm sleeping; Merlin, Harry. I'm not a child! It's just that--that."

"What?"

The urge to move was too strong to resist. Draco bounced up and out of the armchair and took a quick spin about it before making a business of buzzing over to the Picasso for a better look-see. He felt Potter's intensely concerned eyes burning like brands between his shoulders, and twitched uncomfortably under the intangible weight.

"Draco..." Potter replied evenly enough, though a subtle note of warning infused his voice. "You're not making sense. Come on."

"Right, alright. _Okaaay_."

Draco spun about, turning his back on the Picasso and meeting his old friend's eyes again but this time from what felt to be a far safer distance. Potter had always been far, far too sharp for a Gryffindor. And it paid to be wary when one was unfortunately now committed to talking about difficult things. Such as stupid old manors which acted out in defiance of their master's express wishes and how he, personally, wasn't exactly in the market for an infant. Now or possibly ever, really. 

"No, sorry. I suppose I'm not, really, am I?"

Draco aimed for a casual chuckle to go along with his one-shoulder shrug. It seemed as though he succeeded, too, as Potter's expression immediately lightened. Diversion, that was the key. Potter's posh office was not the appropriate place to discuss such trivial, personal, unbearably _stoopid_ \--

"Ack!" He caught himself up again, gasping. "No, sorry! It's more...well. It's just caught up with me, what you said. Just now. You're truly home to stay? Not going instantly off again? That’s fantastic, Harry. I thought you were having me on, I really did.”

He glanced swiftly and pointedly about the office.

"But perhaps you're not, if they've handed you all this. Not so shabby, any of it. Clearly you're appreciated. I'm glad, Harry." 

He smiled, a genuine grin that Potter matched instantly, and pushed himself off the wall, making his way back across the intricately woven woolen carpet. 

“Yes, well, ta. It's definitely an improvement over the hole in the wall I had before."

Harry shifted, settling his nicely suited bum back against the edge of his desk and flapping a careless hand at the rich furnishings.

"I like it, I suppose. And yes, again--it's all true. I am indeed home to stay and for the foreseeable future. Bloody Grimmauld Place certainly seems to believe I am.” He chuckled ruefully, shrugging. “Judging by the way it's been acting up since I set foot back into it. I mean, it's always been a little odd, but this! Which I actually wanted to ask your advice about but we'll get to that, yeah? Thanks, though. I'm chuffed you're happy. Not that I wouldn't expect you to be, but still. It’s good, all of it. Brilliant to finally see you again, and in person, too. I've missed you something fierce, you know. I said, didn't I? Earlier.” 

“Well, I should hope so,” Draco smirked, resettling himself into his plush armchair. He cocked a teasing eyebrow at Potter's relaxed stance. “I'm the best thing that ever happened to you at Flamel, mate; admit it. You'd not have survived without me, certainly. Appalling gaps in your basics, our first year. One would think you'd been raised in a--"

"Really, Malfoy?" Harry cut in, curling his lip. "Must you always be an arse?"

"Sorry!" Draco snickered, spreading his hands wide and grinning full out to show he didn't mean a word of it. "Yes, you know me too well; of course I'm a bit of an arse. We all have our own upbringing to blame for something, don't we? But me too, Harry. I've really--I mean to say it's not been much of a lark, you being gone. It’s been far too long; I was just thinking that the other day. Mum’s been after me to Owl or Floo you for ages now but I knew--although I shall swear under Veritaserum you’d never, ever say so, no fear!--you’d not be so easily accessible. Nature of the job and all that. Still a bit amazed I found you this morning. I wasn't sure you were flooable here at the Ministry, really. And I knew you'd had Grimmauld all shut down when you left, so no use trying there.” 

"Of course I am," Harry protested. "Head of this department; rather have to be." 

"Clearly you're _very_ busy." 

“Unspeakably so,” Harry nodded mock-dolefully, kicking back idly at a sagging stack of papers and whatnot set beneath his desk. “But now I'm home we must spend some quality time, and soon. So?” He cocked a hopeful eyebrow, wrinkling the faded silvery tracing of his old scar.

"Yes?"

“About that. Supper with me at mine tonight? No time like the present, is there? Carpe diem, sieze the day, all that shite, and--and, Draco, I really could do with your help with, er, something. Ah-um, something’s that’s cropped up since I’ve been home. To do with Grimmauld, actually.” Harry's intensely earnest stare shifted to a pointed look, a minor species of glare. "Besides. You still haven't told me what your trouble is, have you? A bloody 'condition'? What even does that even mean, anyway?" 

“Oh, ho, ho…now I see how it is.” Draco smirked, lounging back and spreading his long legs out before him. He snapped his fingers, chuckling. “Oh, snap, Potty! Same as at uni, eh? I come carping to you over some tiny little issue I'm having and you go right-to and turn it about, Potter, and bloody out-do me in the drama department? I know that look, mate. What is it, then? With Grimmauld. Did you happen to come across yet another mysterious sub-basement? Or has poor Kreacher gone completely round the bend at long last, requiring the Old Elf Home? Or,” he frowned quickly, genuinely concerned, “I do hope not something more serious--? I mean, he's a right old git but I do pray he's not unwell, Harry. Is he?” 

"No, no. Not _him_."

Harry didn’t say further, his face gone quite still and grave all the sudden.

"Then what?" 

Draco sat forward in abrupt movement, alarmed. Harry fidgeted with his wand, twirling it nervously and not quite meeting Draco's eyes, a clear sign from olden days that he was working up to telling Draco something upsetting. 

“Harry? It’s not Teddy, is it?” Draco demanded impatiently, casting about mentally for any other instance that might send the wind up Harry's fine arse. "Oh! Do stop fooling with that thing. Put it down and bloody answer me, will you?" He jabbed out a finger, shaking it at the irksome git. “Yes, I know, I'm remiss. I should've asked after him sooner, absolutely. I saw him myself, even, not even a few weeks ago, and he was fine. I mean, it's just that I’ve been a little reclusive lately, I admit that, truly I do, but I've also been run ragged with work and Mum’s said not a word and Auntie hasn’t either! Teddy _is_ alright, yes?” 

“Yes, yes of course _he_ is!" Harry snorted, giving a scoffing laugh. "No worries. It's not that, trust me. Ted's alright. That lad's indestructible, thank Merlin, despite all the mischief he gets into.” He held his hands up defensively. “Look, I stopped by to see him first thing on my way home from Nor--uh, um. Er. Where I was last, working. He's fine.”

Draco flapped an impatient hand at him, settling back on his heels.

"Well, alright," he said, quietly releasing a sigh of relief. "Go on, then. What are you on about?" 

“It's not about Ted," Harry replied seriously. "Fact is, he’s enjoying his time at Shell Cottage immensely and Andy’s enjoying the peace and quiet. She’s set to join your mum for a week or so, I believe? There’s nothing to worry yourself there, believe me. No, it’s more…” He paused, standing at ease with his capable hands clasped behind his back and a contemplative expression descending upon his handsome, mobile features. “It’s more...a personal thing, really. With Grimmauld specifically. Just...One of the reasons you must come, tonight. You have to see it for yourself. I can’t--I can't explain it, exactly.” 

“Well, then, I will.”

Draco assented with alacrity, rising gracefully to his feet and feeling quite pleased and relieved. He smoothed down his robes and smiled kindly at Harry's obvious relief. This plan suited his own requirements to a ‘T’, and much more so than being forced to spill his silly Manor's sordid little secrets here in the inner fastnesses of the Ministry, at Potter's place of business. No need to cajole Harry away from the Ministry before times, either, nor any cause to make an utter fool of himself describing what was really no more and no less than a temporary aberration in his own living arrangements. And Harry, it seemed, required his old school mate's aid and assistance, something Draco was frightfully chuffed to provide.

"Oh, thank Merlin! Good man, Malfoy!" 

“Indeed. I shall be frightfully honoured, Potter, to accept your so gracious invitation to dine. So, the usual time? The usual wine? Swill, rather.” 

“Mm-hmm, yes, please,” Harry said happily, the skin around his striking eyes crinkling up. He darted forward, pulling Draco into yet another quick one-armed hug before leaving go and turning toward the hearth. “Red, dryish, and don’t break the vault on it--I like it cheap and plentiful, same as the old days. Don't waste your decent cellar stuff on me, please. In fact, stop by that Tesco's on the way over tonight and pick up a couple bin ends, won’t you? We’ll likely need them both. Yes, definitely, once you see for yourself what’s been happening with Grimmauld.” 

“Grimmauld itself, though? Hmm, how strange,” Draco murmured, following after. Harry gallantly handed him the fancy urn which held the special Unspeakable floo powder. “Ta. Manor’s all wonky and now you say Grimmauld also is. I wonder if it’s a related issue? Blood ties, you know.” 

Harry shrugged, grimacing as he returned the urn to its place on mantle. 

“Could be. Who's to say, though? Hermione says sometimes it happens this way; these old places have minds of their own. But getting back to our plans, I’m so glad you popped by, mate. I really have missed your pointiness. Two years is a bloody fucking long time to be completely cut off, you know? Andy said you were absolutely brilliant with Ted the entire time I was, erm, gone. Thanks for that, you know? Made all the difference to me, Draco. It was difficult enough, leaving. Worse, leaving him behind. You know?” 

“No, no. S’nothing, really. I've been glad of the opportunity to know him better than I did at uni.” Draco smiled carefully, striving for just that proper note of careless graciousness. "Teddy's a joy. A terror, but also a joy."

"Too true," Harry nodded, looking thoughtful. "I wonder if Tonks was like that, as a child? Your cousin."

"Nymphadora, yes. I wouldn't know, sadly."

Draco dragged his lips into a wry smile, increasingly uncomfortable with Harry's thanking him for something he would have done anyway. Truly, it was best to keep his expression in good order. Harry didn't need it spelled out, just exactly how foul it had been for him, living life with a Potter-sized hole in it. And he quite clearly wasn't in the mood for a real heart-to-heart between old mates at the moment, rushed as he obviously was with all the work piled about his posh new office in Mysteries. 

"I'm sorry, Draco," Harry said quietly, clasping Draco's upper arm for an instant. "I wish it had been--"

“Different, yes. Don't fret, Harry. What's done is done. And Auntie's never really said, one way or the other. But the boy’s certainly always been entertaining--even if maniacally energetic--and it’s a pleasure for me to help out Auntie when I'm able. She’s a remarkable woman but he's definitely a handful and a half. I'm happy to give her a respite whenever I can.” 

“That he is, and I've been damned glad she's had you and your mother to rely on, all this time I've, well. Been, ahem, away.” Expression grim and a little bit lost, Harry glanced away, gaze flickering about the room but never really settling upon anything in particular.

"Harry--" Draco began. Trailed off, abruptly unsure how--or if--he might continue. 

Harry sighed heavily, turning to Draco again, green eyes weary and dark behind the natty spectacles frames. 

“He always makes me wish--just a little, mind--me and Gin had worked out, after Hogwarts. Or even Ollie; he’s always been such a nice chap. A few kids would’ve been brilliant, maybe. Maybe not, though.” He humped a shoulder, huffing out an impatient breath, nostrils, and slung a fast palm through his hair, ruffling it. “There was uni, and then my career here--" he gestured about his office--"and of course I knew I'd be immediately posted, erm, abroad. For quite a long time." He waved a hand, looking uncomfortable. "So, I suppose I can say it, you know? Wanting kids? But it wasn't ever even a serious thought for me. Children aren’t exactly an option, right? Not with my job.” 

Or mayhap he was in the mood, and it was entirely inappropriate and it was all very awkward, even if Potter clearly hadn't noticed the degree of awkward. 

“Yes, well.” Draco hastily slid by him, palming his dry handful of Unspeakably grey powder. “I, um. Must be going. It’s funny you should say that, though.” He glanced back over his shoulder. 

“Really?” Black brows quirked at him quizzically as Harry crowded politely after, resting a hand on the mantle. “Why is that?” 

“Oh, just something amusing. Or rather, more ironic than anything, really, but also slightly amusing. More for me, I suppose.”

"Oh."

Draco shrugged and grinned tensely, showing a bit more teeth than he normally would with his old friend as he turned to face the heath floo. Harry’s prolonged fling with Wood during their latter university days had always annoyed him for some reason. But then again everything annoyed him at the moment, given his lack of sound sleep and his atrociously impertinent mansion, and this deep dive into Harry's past romances wasn't really the fare he'd been expecting, at least not on a first visit. His earlier pleasure at the prospect of dinner together felt all at once faded and dingy.

"Yeah?"

“Just, you know."

Draco waved a languid hand, as if this entire occasion had really been only accidental and not something he'd felt far too driven to make happen. A sour feeling filled his gut, and for no good reason at all. Potter meant nothing by his unasked for confession; it was merely unfortunate small talk, that was all. Best to not think upon it, really. Perhaps he was being unreasonable. He turned himself about, ready to bid Harry adieu, focusing as best as he could manage on his friend's familiar features, his top-notch suit, his air of inexplicably filling a space he was always meant to be. It was fine. All of it. Typical of them, really, given that they'd always had the habit of telling each other the blunt, hard truth. 

"Just, you know. With our houses carrying on the way they are. It's too silly. Separately. And now, I mean, and not--not years ago. It's not important, though. Tell you the joke later, alright? If I even remember; if it even is a joke. You know me, finding things funny when they're actually not, right? Anyway, Harry. We'll catch up as soon as we're able, alright? If it's not this evening, then some other--”

“Absolutely this evening; count on it!" Harry interrupted as Draco eased gingerly back into the hearth, raising his hand preparatory to casting down the floo powder. "No take-backs, mate. I'll poke my head through yours 'round five, too. To remind you. I know how you get when you're all in, Malfoy, don't forget. A dungbomb could go off and you'd never notice. Sooner than that, if I can wade my through this Merlin-cursed mess on my desk. Same old Floo connection, I'm assuming? Brilliant! ‘Bye for now, Draco!" 


	5. The Wheel of Life Has a Rapid Spin Cycle, Apparently

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.thepeculiarbrunette.com/rune-symbols-meanings-and-uses/  
> has some quite useful definitions of the Elder Futhark Runes, including the two referenced here. To wit:  
> "Eihwaz  
> Pronunciation – (debated) either ay-wahz or eee-wahz  
> Meanings – symbolizes the Yew tree, life & death, enlightenment, transitions, renewal  
> Interpretations – Eihwaz does not mean literal death, but is more of a metaphor indicating transitions, renewals and fresh starts."  
> And:  
> "Jera  
> Pronunciation – yair-ah  
> Meanings – harvest and the rewards of past efforts made, natural cycles (the seasons, life, fertility), movements in time.  
> Interpretations – typically represents a seasonal year similar to The Wheel of the Year that is always revolving and changing."

“Eihwaz, Harry,” Millie announced cheerily, trotting back into his office with the promised bacon butty and a very welcome coffee. Floating behind was another teetering stack of correspondence, however. “It’s all Eihwaz, today.” 

“Right, thanks,” Harry smiled, stifling the wince the stack invoked. “Mills, you mean that literally or figuratively? Because I am transitioning as fast I can possibly--”

“No, no,” Millie giggled, dumping everything down upon Harry’s blotter. Being as deft as she was sharp, not a drop spilt nor a missive was lost to the updraft from the small fire crackling away merrily in Harry’s hearth. “Arse. I meant that it’s the topic of the day, apparently, going by what I’m seeing coming though the post from Antwerp. I rather think your gentleman friend over there has a bit of a pash for you. He’s certainly eager to consult on the slightest of prevarications.” 

“Ah,” Harry smirked provocatively, taking up his bacon butty and beginning the process of unwrapping the stasis spell that kept it hot, greasy, drippy and delicious. Bless the enterprising Witch who owned the only food stall that did business outside the Ministry on weekday mornings; she was as much a Saviour as he’d ever been. “Him. Yes.” 

“Tall, blond and fit, Harry?” Mills asked archly, plumping her bum on the corner of Harry’s desk and unwrapping her own in a business-like fashion. “Or tall, brunet and fit, like Ollie? Do tell me everything, holding nothing back. You know I care for you, darling.”

Harry eyed her suspiciously and took a large bite of his sandwich, in part to buy time and in part because he was famished. Grimmauld’s alien alterations had unfortunately included a change in the fare Kreacher offered up at meal times and a constant cuisine of bon bons, champers and--oddly even for Kreacher--jellied eel pies was not a diet Harry felt he could thrive on. 

“Mmpgh?” He waggled his eyebrows at her when she persisted in looking expectant. “Hmmph!” 

“Pish tosh, Potter!” she scoffed, having neatly polished half of her butty in the time it took Harry to chew his first bite and hastily swallow. “Don’t have all day, you know? Things to do, people to intimidate, darling. Must rush, so do spill.” 

“Millie!” 

“What?” 

She sipped her coffee carefully, blowing upon the wisps of steam rising up from the blackest, hottest, most evilly caffeinated brew the Brekkers Stall Witch had available. 

“Like Draco? Or like Ollie? Appearances, Hars,” she chuckled kindly. “Don’t be coy and blush at me, you. I can’t imagine your foreign beau is anything less than purely divine. I was only wondering what type it was you went for, these days. Eihwaz, remember?” 

“Ack, Mills! Stop already, will you?” Harry fell back against the posh leather tufts of his posh office chair and snorted himself into a giggle of his own, flapping his free hand at her. “He’s bloody ninety if he’s a day, alright? And I think already taken, even if I did prefer older men. Which I don’t, ta ever so. Not that it even matters, right?” 

“How so?” Millie cocked her sharp chin at him. “You know Eihwaz better than I do, Harry. It’s been cropping up far too often these last few weeks to be ignored as a mere fluke. That’s why I’m asking, seriously.” She frowned, a quick grimace that flitted away as quickly as it came. “I do actually care about your life, you know. At least a little. Stranger things and all that.” 

“Thanks,” Harry said sincerely, setting his unfinished butty down with a sigh and taking up his own cooling coffee. It, thank Merlin, was well laced with cream and sugar, and tarted up with a dash of cinnamon, just as he liked it. “I know you do, Mills. But I doubt it’s solely me the rune’s referring to. Luna’s home as well, even though she’s gone straight off on sabbatical, and Chaz has just departed. It’s likely more general in nature. Even you, Millie. Not immune.” 

“We shall have to cast, then,” Millie nodded, gathering up her wrapper and her emptied cup though unfortunately leaving the pile of work right where she’d deposited it, square on Harry’s desk. “Some time today, I should think. Though I’m not sure how you’ll fit it in, what with your schedule. Minister’s been sending memos down, asking for an appointment, and Granger’s been banging away at my door daily, wanting to know when you can be freed up again for a long luncheon. I’ve put them all off, just as you’ve asked, Harry, but I can’t for much longer.” 

“No, I know,” Harry sighed, glancing about him. Chaz, the prior Head, had seriously warned him the Jera would be strenuous and time-consuming, but Harry still had not quite absorbed the full measure of what awaited him as the newest Runes Archmage. “Thanks for giving it a good go, though. You know I’ll do the same for you when it’s your turn.” 

“Of course,” Millie smiled back sweetly, a hint of sharpness to the twist of her brightly painted lips. “I’d expect nothing else, Hars. But seriously--what flavour was it whetted your appetite? Blond or brunet? Did you keep a tally, like Luna did?” 

“Merlin, no!” Harry huffed out a breath and tried his damnedest to look scandalized by the very suggestion. “I did not, and no bloody thanks for asking, Mills. Look, weren’t you in a hurry? Had something else to do--better to do, even, with your time at work?” He cast a Tempus with a quick flick. “Because it’s passing eight o’clock already, you know.” He frowned with mock concern. “You’ll be late, probably, and then blame me for keeping you gossiping later, see if you don’t.” 

“Shan’t,” Millie said promptly, pausing at the door to smirk wickedly over her shoulder. “I, unlike you, am blissfully free for the rest of the day. All the shite on my desk is now properly processed and placed promptly on yours, Boss Man, which is as it should be. I’m off for a relaxing shop, actually. Agent Provocateur's Diagon is having a clearance on racy lingerie and I don’t want to miss it. I only stayed to ensure you ate something other than eel pie and chocs. Can’t have you expiring in your first month on the job, can we?” 

“Mills!” Harry stood up, outraged, extending an accusing finger to wave wildly in her direction. “Lingerie? Now, of all times? You--you--you!” 

“Exist to keep you awake and aware, Archmage Potter, and up on all suits whilst you’re Head and on premises,” Millie replied sedately, a glitter in her sharp eyes and edge to her smile. “As it should be. Bye-bye, now.” 

“Well.” Harry sat back down with a thump, watching the door shut smartly on its well-oiled hinges behind her. “Fuck, then. Be that way. I shall have to cast the divination by myself, I suppose.” He glanced at his unfinished breakfast and cooling coffee, then over the nearest heap of correspondence and sighed. “But not yet, clearly. Damn!” 


	6. All's Well?

Promptly at seven, Draco stepped through the floo into Harry’s familiar drawing room at Grimmauld.

"Potter."

He’d been eagerly awaiting their dinner date all the remainder of the day, having restored his spirits with a power nap taken on the tatty old settee he kept in his Observatory, and not even the Manor’s latest ploy--all corridors in the entire leading to the Nursery, every single fecking one, and pureed _everything_ for luncheon--had been sufficient to dim the glow of his anticipation. His early escape to Town and thence to Tesco’s had been very much necessary and not just for purpose of fetching the swill Harry liked quaffing. The Manor was, in a word, stifling. Well, two words really did it greater justice: _fucking stifling_. Pah! Even if Harry couldn't materially assist, at least there would be the blessed relief of having a comfortable rant in the company of a dear old friend. 

“Hey?” 

He peered about, setting his two bottles down on a side table so as to free up his hands. Slowly he spun on a neat heel, searching for signs of life. Or, at very least, recent occupancy. But, no. The familiar withdrawing room was welcoming, as always, but depressingly empty of his quarry. A silver salver with an uncorked bottle of wine--a much nicer vintage than what he’d brought with--and two gleaming glasses stood at the ready on the credenza. A tiered tray of Kreacher’s infamous nibbles-and-bits was placed next to it. The hearth logs flared back up into a cozy, crackling fire behind him. Yet his erstwhile host was absent. 

“Oi, Potter?” Draco called out, raising his voice and moving at a leisurely pace towards the open door to the central corridor. "Bit rude of you, isn't it? Abandoning me like this. Potter!" 

“Malfoy, hey!”

Potter bustled into the room, forestalling Draco’s nascent thoughts of going in search of him. “Sorry, sorry, but there’s this situation upstairs and I--well, Kreacher and I,” he gulped, “we’ve had our hands full, shall we say? Anyway, are you hungry? Kreacher’s got dinner already laid out in the dining room. Well...it's food, anyway. Of a sort. But it's posh. You'll probably like it, really.” He swept over to the drinks table, a casual lift of a forefinger causing the wine bottle to startle and instantly begin pouring out two generous glasses. "Oh, yes. Here," he said, catching them up. "You must be parched; I know I am."

“Famished, actually,” Draco smiled, gratefully accepting the glass of wine handed him. "But thank you. Throat was a bit dryish." He cast his light cloak carefully over the back of a convenient armchair, peering more closely at his old mate. “Hmm. You look harried, Harry. Haunted, even. Aright there?”

“Piss off, you, I’m fine.” Harry frowned at the clutter on the drinks table as if it offended him and then caught up the half-emptied bottle in his free hand. He eyed the others like a hawk, tilting his chin at them and looking very predatory. “Marvellous; couldn't be better. Ah! I’ll just bring this along, shall I?" He tucked one of Draco's offerings under his arm, thinning his lips. "Yes, this one as well; ta, Draco. Let's eat, shall we? While we have the chance,” he added darkly, directing a vague glare upwards and yon, presumably at the 'situation' he'd just come from. "And I'm not 'harried', you git. I'm irked. There's a definite difference." 

"I'm sure," Draco said blankly, nodding politely. "As you say." 

"I do," Potter replied, eyes glittering. "Well. Shall we?" 

"Ah..." Draco hesitated, concerned. "Um." 

Their old jest had the distinct ring of truth to it, Draco decided, feeling ominously perturbed. Harry was still clad in his Unspeakable robes, though they were unbuttoned and flapping about his legs as he busied himself with retaining both wine bottles and his glass while sidling in a polite crabwise motion towards the doorway. Draco frowned at the tense set of his friend's shoulders, at the feverishly brilliant glitter of his eyes, and even at the fact Harry had momentarily forgotten again the wonders of magic and was absentmindedly trying to juggle all that liquid-filled glassware. Huh! Clearly Harry hadn’t had a moment to himself since he’d arrived home and, if Draco knew his friend’s regretfully overcrammed work schedule, he’d been terribly late even departing the Ministry this evening.

"Draco? Are you coming? The eel pies will get cold."

Struck by another stronger pang of nebulous concern, Draco drifted to a halt. 

“Er, Potter?” he ventured uncertainly, “are you quite, quite certain this is convenient? I really don't care to intrude if it’s not a good time.” 

“Oh, it is, believe me,” Harry exclaimed fervently, whirling about. He galloped back to Draco and grasped his forearm, his wine glass and the bottles finally--thankfully--cast aside and sloshing along merrily behind him.

"Oh. Really?"

"Yes." He blinked up at Draco from behind the thin shield of his spec lenses, exuding earnest intent. “ _Yes_. A very good time, a brilliant time, the best possible time of all, in fact. Can’t think of a better one, actually.” 

"Oh." Draco blinked right back down at him, the level of his concern spiking abruptly upward once more. “Um, you can’t?”

" _No_."

Harry dug his fingers into Draco’s pristine sleeve, gazing up at Draco with all Earth's gravity contained in those famous green eyes, and so urgently Draco found himself not even slightly inclined to scold his friend for the wrinkles he was no doubt inflicting on the hapless fabric of his bespoke robes. Nor for the worry he'd apparently been needlessly feeling. 

“No. I’m serious; I need your help, really I do," Harry went on. "I’m glad you’re here and not only because it’s been far too long since we’ve had a chance to catch up. I’ve missed the hell out of you--and your bloody braininess. I need all those mental muscles of yours on my side right now. I’m a bit stumped with what’s happened here, alright, and I'm more than a little worried that I _am_.” 

“Scared, Potter? Well...alright,” Draco replied, shaken both by the intensity of Harry’s appeal and his fervent nod of assent. "Of course."

Harry had always been a little excitable, of course--Gryffindor, what?--but he’d really settled into his skin and been far more at ease when they’d both attended Flamel. Interestingly enough, it was Harry who’d pursued the more heavily weighted academic course of Advanced Ancient Runes whilst Draco had opted for his childhood favourite, Astronomy. A lark, that, but one he truly enjoyed, and could bloody well manage in his sleep if he had to. Harry had worked hard, too, really putting his back into it. It wasn't every Runes Mage who was recruited in Fourth Year, certainly. One simply had to respect that. 

“If you're sure, Potter. I just--I mean, my little problem can wait, I suppose, and it rather looks to me you’re in a more dire situation?” 

“It’s nothing dire, really,” Potter insisted, giving Draco’s forearm a fond pinch. “Or rather, it’s nothing that can’t be managed, I’m positive. Nobody’s dying, no one’s Cursed, there’s no real damage...yet. Jera, Draco. But it’s also something we can get to, right? After supper. Yours, too. I've not forgotten for an instant you have a 'Condition', Draco. No fear.”

“Of course, if you say so," Draco inclined his pale head regally, lips twitching, breathing a tiny internal sigh of relief that apparently his dear friend hadn't come completely unhinged. "Potter.” 

“I do,” Harry said firmly, releasing Draco’s arm finally. “Right. Do come along. Let’s have our dinner and then I’ll show you my problem. But first you can tell me how you’ve been going along while I’ve been away. I’m starved for news, I swear. I hated not being able to Owl or floo you, but it can't be helped.” He shrugged, grimacing, and led off the way to the dining room. “It’s my least favourite part of the position, actually,” he added, glancing back over his shoulder and biting his lower lip in an engaging manner. “Not being in contact with any of my friends and family for so long. I abhorred that part, honestly." 

“No,” Draco gestured elegantly with his stemware, sighing gustily as they took the short march down the hall and swept through another doorway. “It can’t. Be helped, that is. Not if you seriously want to advance, and apparently you have, what with that posh office.” 

“Pshh,” Harry said, ushering Draco into Grimmauld’s ornate dining room with a smirk. “Tosh. I suppose it’s alright.” 

“Alright?” Draco scoffed, allowing himself to be seated. “It’s a bit more than alright. Picasso, mate. My Mum would die for one of those, really. Brilliant old Safavid you have laying about on the bloody floor, too. But," he sniffed, pulling a long face. "I suppose that’s the thing I really dislike most about you.” 

“What is?” Harry asked, smiling as he sat himself down, stripping off his Ministry robes as an afterthought and slinging them round the back of his chair. Kreacher had thoughtfully resized the usually large dining table down to a far more intimate proportion. Harry leant forward and topped up their glasses from the bottle hovering at the ready. "My decor? My carpet choices?" There were only their two seats and barely room for the crowd of covered silver salvers on the polished surface. He lounged back, grinning sassily at Draco. “Drink up, mate. There’s so many things you hate about me, Draco. I've quite lost track. Which one is this?” 

“Shut _up_ ," Draco grinned. "I meant your bloody bent for fucking success in all things--and your bloody humility over it!” He raised his glass in a wordless toast. “To you, Potty. Not that I’m complaining, particularly," he went on, his tone fond. “It’s rather a pleasure having mates in high places. Or posh basements, rather. Now, you said this morning you’ve been promoted yet again? Thrice? Can you at least tell me what I am to address you as, oh Great Panjandrum? And are you really, truly back in Town for good? Because--correct me if I am recalling incorrectly, do, Harry--that wasn't how it worked out the last time you told me that exact same thing--not at all! I still hold a grudge against you for that and don't you dare forget it.”

“Arse,” Harry muttered affectionately, “that was purely a miscalculation on my part--which you know full well--and you may address me as simply as Archmage Potter or Runes Head now--though you know I’ll have to kill you if you do it in public. We don't bruit titles about, not in DoM.” 

"Hah!" Draco snorted, waving that off. "A pox on your constant threats of violence to mine person, Master Archmage. Note how I am still actively breathing despite all your many threats to off me, over all these many years. Not scared, Potty. Not a bit of it. You've not killed me yet. Nor I you." 

"Oh, pooh," Harry laughed cheerily. "As if I ever really would. But I am sort of required to say it, at least, Draco, since I'm an--"

"Unspeakable. Yes, yes, I know," Draco sighed, draining his glass and setting it down. "Too, too well. Right. Carry on, then. So, how are your other two thirds doing? I swear, I've not been out of my damned manor for a month or more, Harry. I've no idea what's been happening in the world." 

"Ron and Hermione? Oh, they're fine. Glad to see me, of course, and busy as anything--of course. Never a dull moment between them, I suppose." 

"Tell me all, then."

"Well, Hermione's also been promoted and Ron's been doing very well in Aurors--"

"Cheers for him," Draco smiled at Harry's obvious pride in his friends. "And of course Rosie's grown a foot or more--"

"Just like Teddy!" Harry grinned. "They're talking of having another, you know." 

"Really?" 

And so the natter went, Draco and Potter going on to enjoy a comfortable, chatty meal, even though the meal itself was eerily reminiscent of the fare Draco had been recently subjected to at home in his malfunctioning Manor. It was what came after that was truly shocking.

Potter had been absolutely correct: his House indeed suffered from a 'Condition'. 


	7. Casting About

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Referring back to this lovely source for runes: https://www.thepeculiarbrunette.com/rune-symbols-meanings-and-uses/
> 
> "Ansuz  
> Pronunciation – ahn -sooze  
> Meanings – Communication, spiritual growth, signals or prophecies from the universe or an ancestral god (occasionally Odin)"
> 
> "Raidho  
> Pronunciation – rye-though  
> Meanings – journey (physical or spiritually), seeing the bigger picture, change, reunions, travel, represents the wagon wheel"

“Hars, I am afraid it’s not going to come much clearer than this,” Millicent remarked, gathering up the most official--and thus most spiffing--set of rune stones the Department of Mysteries had available and dumping them unceremoniously back into their velvet sack. “Ansuz, Raidho, yes, all that’s here and clearly visible--”

“And to be expected,” Luna chimed in, sitting back on her heels and throwing a hank of trailing blonde tresses over her shoulder. “We’ve returned home at last, there’s an upset and botheration amongst our relatives and loved ones; nothing bad, of course, but naturally. The runes would be sending messages of peace and serenity in this case, Harry.” 

“I know,” Harry sighed, rising to his feet and sweeping a heap of scrolls aside. His blotter had not improved in the past few days; often he could barely make out the very nice gold-leaf imprint round the edges. “But Eihwaz is the primary message. Transitions. Off with the old, in with the new, all that. So let’s consider, right? What’s no longer benefiting us, Luna, Mills? What do we need take a new view of? Departmentally speaking _and_ personally.” 

“My brother,” Millicent announced darkly. “Is now officially a teenager, at just the thirteen. Or so he's informed me. That’s quite enough for me and Mum, Hars. He’s all about the Muggle devices and hanging about intersections along Diagon with his puerile little mates and generally making a nuisance of himself. My wits are at bitter end. As is my small store of patience.” 

“And I, _I_ want a baby,” Luna announced cheerily. “With Rolf, I think. He’s quite acceptable. Oh, and I need to find another place to live, I also think. Dad’s got this inopportune habit of surprising us. Perfectly alright, really, but Rolf’s a bit spooked.” She tapped a reflective fingertip to her chin. “Hmm, perhaps two. Babies.”

“And I,” Harry stated grimly, “do _not_ , particularly. Want that. Although Grimmauld seems to have developed different ideas, if the décor and diet are anything to go by.” 

“Departmentally, Harry?” Luna cocked a brow at him. “Alright there?” She glanced about her, smiling dreamily at the Picasso. "Here, rather. You know." 

“Well…” Harry shrugged, grimacing ruefully. “There’s my Antwerp chappie, always, and I’ve been receiving some unsettling news from the Americas recently. Damages at Nazca, unfortunately. And I never leave here at a rational hour and the bloody Aurors are always nattering after us for field support. So, normal enough, I’d say. Nothing drastic.” 

“Chaz is in France, Hars,” Mills remarked, the little frown thoughts of her younger sibling dissipating and a set, professional mien settling across her pert features. “He’s reporting back that the Lascaux have been seeing an extraordinarily high level of magical and Muggle visitation. I think that bears investigation.” 

“It does, indeed,” Harry acquiesced. “A larger convening of our forces, Mills. Would you so kind as to arrange it?” 

“Of course; I’ve done it already,” Millie smirked sharply, “for Wednesday next, eight sharp. Lovegood, you’ve had your Owl?” 

“I have,” Luna smiled. She rose to her feet, casually stepping back into her shoes and spelled her cup clean with a lazy wave of her wand. “Here you are, Millicent. Harry, if that’s all?” 

“Yes, thank you both,” Harry replied. He cleaned his own mug and handed it over promptly to his impatient assistant. “I’ll just continue to slog on through, I suppose, meanwhile.” 

“You do that, Harry,” Luna chirped, ducking back into the office floo. “I always do feel more relaxed when you’re slogging. But do try and have a little fun with it, all the same. How’s Draco been?” 

“No clue,” Harry replied shortly, reseating himself before his horrible blotter and whipping out his quill, a distinct air of the business-like and professionally keen pouring off his aura. “Bugger’s gone off the map, damn him. However--” 

Luna shrugged charmingly. “ _Yes_ , Harry. Still…” 

“ _Not_ preventing you from poking your head through his floo, is it?” Mills went to the door, pausing to shoot Harry a fond glance. “Though I imagine you’ve had your hands full enough, in your off hours.” 

"Too right. _Merlin_." 

“Cheers, then,” Luna smiled, throwing up the scattering of sparkling floo powder. “Ottery St. Catchpole!”

“Bye, Luna. Piss off, Bulstrode.” Harry frowned meaningfully. “Your happy home life is waiting on you, doubtless. Bring me back a curry, please? For the love of Merlin.” He indicated his belly beneath the folds of his work robes, which obligingly rumbled. “Eel tartlets this morning, you know? I’m famished.” 

“Ta, and yes. Cheers, Boss. Have at it. But in a fun sort of way, naturally.” 

Millicent took herself away, banging the door behind her and leaving Harry to briefly contemplate the possible alternate Eidwazian paths of Portkeying to Lascaux or journeying all the way to Peru...or perhaps, just perhaps, sticking his head through the floo and hailing his old mate Malfoy. Perhaps nipping out for a spontaneous pint at Draco's local? He cast a glance at his office clock, which was grand and impressive and read just after half eleven. Surely even the sleepy old codger who ran it had bestirred himself by now and likely poor Draco was as fatigued of sexual-appetite inducing food as he was? 

“Right. Fuck,” Harry growled, yanking the first of the scrolls toward him and abruptly deciding against all of it. " _No_. I hate bloody meetings, even the ones I bloody well look forward to. What's this, now?" 

Sadly, Jera was still paramount and there were more pressing problems than any of those happening in faraway lands. His agents in the field were competent, his agents at HO were capable, and it was his bounden duty to act the bloody Polestar he was meant to be now and trust them all to get on with it. Besides, Antwerp was frightfully insistent, as usual. 

“No time, not for that,” he testily informed the unfurled scroll, wincing at all the handwritten notes Mills had scribbled helpfully along the margins. “No time a’tall. I just hope it’s a decent curry and not that shite from that new place she brought me last time. Ho! To work, Harry. It’s not going to do it on its own, now is it?” 


	8. Not So Much

“Malfoy? You alright?” Harry looked up from his impressively cluttered desk with a startled glance. “Come on through, will you? Tea? You look horrid.” 

Draco was absolutely not 'alright'; he was a million leagues removed from ‘alright’ and he was afraid it showed. No--he wanted it to show, actually. There were times when he’d really, really missed having Harry available and now he didn’t have to, finally. 

“Potter, _no_! I can’t come through--there’s no time for chatting. I need _you_ to come through! And it needs be now, please.”

He threw up his hands, uncaring that he was still clad in his muddied outdoors working robes and his saggiest, oldest wellies and not at all dressed to be in the presence of the recently installed Head of DoM, even via a casual Floo call.

“This cannot wait a moment longer; it’s bloody driving me _spare_!” 

“Oh! Of course!” Harry leapt to his feet at the audible snap of Draco's teeth, grabbing up his wand and tossing his outer robes pell-mell over one shoulder, already moving towards his agitated friend. "Wait! One tick; let me send Millie a quick Patronus, let her know I’m out for the day.” He faffed his wand about and the famous Potter stag coalesced in a winking, already pawing the expensive carpet it floated over and snorting inaudibly. “Wait--I am, aren’t I? Draco? Out for the day?” 

“Yes! Now move it, Potter.” Draco very nearly shouted, but managed to keep his tone level by dint of almost cracking those back-teeth he'd been so assiduously grinding for the better part of an hour into a tight, hard clench. He sniffed instead, imperiously. “Your Unspeakable arse is required this instant.” 

“Coming!” 

Harry tarried not a moment more; his Patronus galloped off, misting through his office door. Snatching up a handful of powder, he tumbled through his floo and nearly straight into Draco’s arms. 

“Whoa there, sorry!” he gasped, righting himself. Instantly he took up a fighting stance, wand at the ready and other hand roughly shoving an unwary Draco behind him. "What's it?" he demanded, staring wildly about Draco's innocuously elegant foyer, his specs glinting in the morning light that poured through the transom. “What’s wrong--where is it, Malfoy? It’s not a Death Eater or something like, is it?” 

“No, no, Potter, steady on,” Draco growled, catching Harry by his shoulders and bodily turning the smaller man so that he was facing the archway leading out to the Main Grand Staircase. “This way. It’s nothing Dark, I promise you--and it’s not down here. It’s up there, and it's out of control now.”

“Nothing Dark?” Harry echoed, allowing himself to be dragged along. “You’re certain?” 

“Yes! But I’m counting on you to help me, Potter. You must have learnt something useful in all those secret courses you took and couldn't tell me about. And I know Hermione’s been Owling you advice about Grimmauld Place and its troubles--at least enough to ameliorate them. Well, now’s the time to show _me_ your mettle, Harry. I truly do not believe I can bear to be in this house a single fecking second longer, not as it is _now_.”

“Oh! That,” Harry nodded wisely. “That 'Condition' you mentioned and then didn’t have the opportunity to tell me about, at dinner. I was wondering about that…” He cocked his chin inquisitively, a glint of reproach in his gaze. "You know, you could have said something a great deal sooner. It's been a week since I heard a peep out of you, git." 

“Yes, _that_ ,” Draco said fiercely, shrugging off the scold with all the ease of a legacy Slytherin. “It’s terribly similar to what’s going on Grimmauld. In fact, the Manor’s gone and lost its freaky incorporeal mind with this bloody 'Draco-have-a-baby' business."

"Pardon?" Harry looked startled. "I didn't realize--"

"Of course you didn't, Harry," Draco snapped. "I never got round to all the gruesome details, did I? We were far too busy getting trollied and gawping at the brothel _you_ now dwell in, weren't we? But my House is just as horrid, damn it, even if it's all frolicking mooncalves and towering stacks of nappies! It’s worse than a mere fucking Curse now and Mum’s saying there’s nothing anyone can do, not that she knows of, not that even Blaise’s mother knows of--but you, Potter! You’re the one I need, I know it. You've got it, the knack of saving people, and bloody hell, Harry, I need saving!” 

“M-Me?” Harry squeaked, allowing himself to be forcibly marched towards the staircase. “What, why me, Malfoy? It’s your bloody Manor. Don't you have control over it, as its Master?” 

“Not anymore, I don’t,” Draco hissed grimly at Harry’s ear, urging him up the marble steps all the while. “It’s resisting every incantation, even the Blood ones, and the ones you showed me last week at dinner no longer do a fucking speck of good. Believe me, I've tried them on my own, repeatedly. They may work for your tawdry Grimmauld but they do nothing for my Nursery. I need you here, Potter, and you need to do the casting for me. It's all I can think of to try, now. You know them better than I--Hermione taught you the wand movements directly via floo call, you said--and besides, we both know you’re the more powerful Wizard of the two of us.” 

“But, Malfoy,” Harry craned his head so he could peer back over his shoulder, though he thankfully kept up the grueling pace as Draco left him go and fell in beside him. “I’m not sure that’s really true. Dumbledore fed me any number of lies and half truths, but he wasn't lying when he told me we were the two most powerful Wizards of our age. I think maybe Hermione’s the third, really, but Dumbledore was an arse like that, sometimes. And power itself isn't always the answer--as well we both know, remember?” 

“Yes, and?” Draco sent a searing glare over at Harry as they reached the landing. “It doesn't matter, does it? The technicalities of who's who and what's what, I mean. What matters is the practical effects, and in practical terms you do have a significantly higher level of sheer brute strength in Magic than I do. We all witnessed that back in DADA. Flamel wasn't any different. There’s a damn good reason the bloody Ministry types tapped your fine Saviour-y arse to lead Mysteries. Now shut it and come along, because I need you to use it, all you’ve got. It’s either that or I do a fucking bunk this minute and it's my own stupid old Manor and I don't bloody well want to! D'you get it?” 

“Yes. _Alright_. Still. Not agreeing with you," Harry muttered, scowling darkly down at his boot tips, but he did keep up the pace. “You sell yourself short, sometimes.”

"No I don't." Draco sniffed haughtily, using the bannister to haul himself along so as to arrive all the faster. "I just know my own limitations. That's the point of this exercise, actually. _You_ don't, really, know yours a'tall, Harry, and that's an enormous plus in this instance."

"If you say so." Harry sounded quite doubtful about that, but it may've been the shortness of breath caused by the fierce rush up the staircase. "Still not--"

"Hush," Draco scowled over his shoulder. "I do say so and it's worth a damn good go. Come on, will you?" 

In moments they’d gained the fourth landing up, and Draco silently steered Harry to face down the centre of an expansive three-corridor split. They regarded it. The main hall led to various suites for guests and whatnot, the right led to all the rooms the House Elves occupied as paid employees and retainers. He cocked his thumb at the leftmost one. Which had once been merely serviceable, as befitted its workaday purpose as a repository for boisterous Malfoy spawn, but was now quite tarted up with pristine striped silk damask wallpaper and a series of rather impressively filigreed silver Persian-style sconces leading down the distance. A truly gorgeous runner overlaid the polished parquetry and small sculptures and portraits of antique Ancestors as Children were displayed in niches every three or four yards or so. It all smelt of lilac, talcum, honey and freshly gathered daisies and was just precisely the most comfortable of temperatures. 

"Right," he said, steadying them both and taking a deep breath. "This is it, Harry. Ready?" 

“Down there, isn't it, the nursery?" Harry blinked at the newly renovated hallway. "Huh. Your old rooms from when you were a kid? They were all very green, as I remember.” 

“No, not anymore they aren't,” Draco sighed. He shoved off his heel and began the walk at a fast clip down the plush runner. “If it were only that sort of business I could handle it all on my own, Harry. But, see? It’s this way now--" he waved a hand at the fairytale Arabian Nights accents--"and it’s become its own whole wing now, the fucking entity that's the Malfoy Nursery. It’s spilt over to the outsides too--all over the Gardens, even over to the Home Farm. It’s spreading like some Merlin-forsaken infestation, and it’s trying to entrap me in its foul coils.” He paused for breath, panting, and then let out a wild bark of laughter. “You know what?” 

“No, what?” Harry asked, trotting to come level with Draco and side-eyeing him warily. “Tell me.” 

“I’ll tell you!” Draco rolled his eyes madly. “It was the last straw, is what. I was coming up to my suite this morning after breakfast and it did the usual thing it’s been doing, the Manor, what with realigning itself and sending me off to the Nursery, right? Like I told you. Well, I didn't, but I meant to.” 

“Yeah?” 

“So I arrive there, just as usual, and that despite seriously, consciously concentrating on getting off the bloody path it keeps sending me down and actually making it to my damned rooms and my own damned lav, right? I’m resisting and dragging my feet every step of the way but it’s like the strongest Imperius you can ever imagine. Right? Worse than the Mark.” He laughed again, a little wildly. "Never thought I'd hear myself say that aloud in this lifetime, must admit."

“Mm-hmm, okay,” Harry hummed, and bumped a shoulder against Draco’s tense form, propelling them forward. "Sounds horrid. Keep on, then, if we're doing this." 

"Oh, we're doing it," Draco affirmed grimly. He and Harry exchanged worried glances and then turned their eyes steadfastly ahead, focussed upon the grand double door that stood at the very end of the very much longer-than-it-ever was- before corridor. "Never fear." 

They began walking ever faster as the hallway twisted itself FunHouse-wise all about them, projecting scenes of the stylized Nursery Life of circa Merlin knew how many eras, all flashing by eerily as visual spectres, emblazoned as brilliant murals on the now cream-plastered walls. The runner ended abruptly and the parquet segued smoothly into a glossy milk-white marble tile, the Persian lamps replaced with Classical sconces. The walls switched up again and suddenly sprouted tapestries, featuring all manner of fantastical fish, animals and birds cavorting about freely with a never-ending stream of elegantly clad children. 

"Circe. Don't look now but this has gone all skew-whiff, Harry," Draco breathed quietly, doing his best to ignore the Manor's antics. "Deucedly odder than breakfast-time, this is." 

“Worse than the Mark, right," Harry prompted gently after they rounded two entirely unexpected bends in the apparently straight hall and then carefully navigated a sudden small fountain. It was a cherub, set about with assorted greenery. "Yes, this is decidedly wonky, alright. Well, go on then. What happened next?” 

"Well!" Draco snorted, never taking his eyes off the elusive door. “Which tactics didn't work for me at all, and here I am fetching up at the Nursery and just finding my feet are carrying me right on through, and then here I am, internally screaming, mate, while I find myself straightening the baby quilt on the wee little bed and folding fucking freshly laundered nappies!”

“Merlin!” Harry stopped in his tracks, and Draco followed suit, but a step farther on. He reversed himself neatly so that he was right by Harry’s shoulder; it was their unspoken agreement that they were always far better off together. “That’s fucking insane, Malfoy! And your mum said she can’t help at all?” 

“No!” Draco slid his arm about Harry’s shoulders and pulled him close, leaning in to mutter confidentially into Harry’s ear. “No. She cannot, and here I was, hearing myself singing lullabies and chanting nonsense rhymes! And the smell I smelt? I swear it was intoxicating--like Amortentia, but all about bloody babies! Talcum and daisies, damn it! Fresh linens, line dried! So, it struck me.”

“What did?” 

“This is Ancient Magic. It’s as old as your eldest of Runes, Potter, and that’s why none of the more modern spells and charms work on it. You simply have to cast your Unspeakable version of Finite or whatever it you people use to contain those wily old buggers, the Old Ones?” 

“Hey!” Harry looked startled. “How do you know about those, Malfoy? That’s Unspeakable business!” 

“Because I sat proxy in several of your courses--remember? I do take in things, now and again, and sometimes they even stick with me.” Draco rolled his eyes again, but fondly. “Now, look, here’s the plan. Something stupidly simple and powerful, Potter. That’s what I want you to cast. That’s what you do best, isn’t it? Oh, no, here it is!” 

“What the bloody fuck?” Harry gasped, clutching instinctively at Draco's arm. 

Draco whimpered inaudibly, clinging to Harry, the both of them falling back as the hallway telescoped all at once upon itself and they suddenly found themselves confronting nose-to-wooden panel an improbably imposing gilt-and white painted double door.

Above it, emblazoned upon an ornate medallion, all wreathed about with bas-relief carvings of baby animals and miscellaneous florals, was an eye-catching polished brass plaque proclaiming ‘NURSERY’. 

Or rather, it was more like: **_NURSERY_.**

Only worse. Bit imposing, really. Definitely not in the slightest bit normal.

"Cor." Harry’s eyes widened as he stared at it. “Blimey!” 

“You see what I mean now?” Draco asked tensely. “It’s that level of insane, Potter. You see how I’m counting on you, really. I don't know what else to do at this point.” 

“Now, now,” Harry said in a soothing manner, turning to give Draco a reassuring grin although he kept one wary eye upon the entry. “It’s still for babies; it can’t all that bad. Just let me have a little look inside now and we’ll see what can be done. You can’t let it chase you out of your own home,” he added sturdily, hand turning the large brass knob gingerly. “You’ll see; we’ll soon sort it out." 

"You say this," Draco said tersely, "but you've not seen it yet, have you?" 

Harry, Draco noted, looked pretty confident. Of course, he’d had some little success with quelling Grimmauld’s own declaration of ‘House Knows Best’, the lucky bugger, but even so, his control over the Place was a bit spotty. It may've been merely that Harry hadn't an ounce of spare time to truly set it to rights, but Harry's Ancient and Noble manse still rather more resembled a bawdy house than the home of a highly respected Runes Archmage. Too, Kreacher and Hermione had both reluctantly admitted Potter was ultimately fighting a losing battle. Draco had made sure to consult them--discreetly, of course. He eyed Harry suspiciously. Gryffindor bravado was not going to get him his old familiar Manor back, no. But a Harry Potter fighting tooth-and-nail for his friend? Now, that was an entirely different cauldron of flobberworm spit, and Draco was gambling on it. 

“Okay now?” Apparently any qualms Harry may’ve been experiencing were not something he felt he should be sharing with a Draco quite clearly teetering on the brink. “Alright, Malfoy?” he prodded. “Ready for this?” 

“Yes, alright,” Draco grudgingly allowed, shutting his eyes in silent supplication to any listening anti-fertility deity and hauling in a hard breath. One way or another, Harry was his last real hope of regaining a normal life. He gritted his teeth, hissing, “Go ahead, then. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? Get on with your customary heroics, please and thank you.” 

“Not scared, then,” Harry teased, twisting the knob. “Not even a little?” 

“Shut it, you flaming arse.” Draco's lip twitched. “I’m not, really. Just experiencing a very healthy and rational amount of concern at the moment, that’s all. As you should be, too, if you weren’t _you_. Grimmauld’s not exactly spit-spot, top of the nines, is it? All that red velvet swagging, Potty. Still. Go ahead and open the damn door, will you? The bloody suspense is killing me here.” 

“Alight, here goes,” Harry nodded, and gave the door a hard nudge with his boot, but carefully, so as not to scuff it. “Stay back, will you?”

“Fuck, no,” Draco snarled, elbowing his way forward so they were neck-to-neck, shoulders pressed tight, both of them glaring dangerously at the gaping maw as it opened. “Make room, git. In this together, remember?” 

“Alright. Hup!” Harry called out and cast, hard as he may. Draco felt it carry through Harry’s body and pass like a lightning arc over to his own, and he too cast, with as much strength as he could bring to bear. 

“ **Finite**!” 

“ _Finite_!!”

Silently, and without the teeniest creak, the door finished its grand opening arc, revealing an absolutely gorgeous suite, filled with lovely light, beautiful furnishings, delightfully aromatic scents, truly pleasing to the senses in every possible manner, and clearly the best possible place ever to house an Heir to the House. 

“...Oh, fuck,” Harry said breathlessly, stepping forward on impulse and tugging Draco along with. “You didn't say there were spiders, Malfoy. And spiderwebs; so pretty! Or constellations. Bloody--er. I quite fancy all those, you know. Feels like home, a little.” 

“Well,” Draco said, staring about, sharp eyes picking out the newly updated and apparently now also Harry Potter-biased design features. “There weren’t. But now there are.” 

“Hmm,” Harry hummed, carefully swishing his wand at the door, which began to very gently close again. Carefully he stepped back, pinching Draco's forearm sharply through the fabric of his robes sleeve. 

“Lovely, that. Brilliant, even.”

Startled, Draco hurriedly matched his mate's retreat.

"Farther back. Come _on_."

He yanked at Draco’s elbow again, but subtly, edging the two of them well out of the arc of the double doors. With a final quiet snick of an unseen lock they completed their motion, leaving Harry and Draco safely outside.

"Oh dear." Draco blinked rapidly. "I don't quite know what to say." 

“I do," Harry said firmly. "That _cannot_ be a good thing, mate.” 

“No.” 

Draco stared at the door, and particularly the inscription. Where before it had been officious, a sort of giant, trumpeting alarum, a howling cry out from the heart and soul of his Manor, now it was demure. Sedate, even. Perhaps coy. 

“ **NURSERY** ,” it read, on a quaintly painted wooden plate. Or rather, it said “ _Nursery_ ”, and oh my, but it was an invitingly whimsical summons, promising all good things in Nature. Not creepy at all, no. 

“Yes, well.” Draco coughed, bobbing his chin sharply. “You've seen it, we've cast Finite. So. I think we should, ah, perhaps now be--”

“Yes, immediately,” Harry agreed, sliding his arm about Draco’s waist and taking a good firm grip of it. “Do the honours?” 

“Gladly,” Draco replied instantly, shutting his eyes and desperately envisioning the safest, most secure place currently available for refuge. “Ah! Molly Weasley’s Kitchen!” 

Some might say it was really a pity they were both so primed and impressionable, Draco and Harry. Some might hazard a guess that the Old Magic was a _force majeure_ and that even the two strongest, most powerful of Wizards of their generation had little to no chance of halting it, of subverting its will. Some might, indeed, say that. And some might be bloody doubting wankers, too. 

Draco opened grateful eyes to a crowded, low-ceilinged country kitchen with a feeling of utmost relief, and felt Harry immediately relax beside him. 

“Oh! Hullo, boys!” Mrs Weasley greeted them cheerily, showing no sign of being at all perturbed by her sudden and unannounced visitors. "Brilliant you've popped in. Perfect timing." A host of Weasley family members and assorted guests murmured happily at them as two more place settings immediately arranged themselves upon the long refectory-style table, spare chairs bedecked with gingham cushions scuttling up with alacrity. “Couldn't have asked for a happier surprise, Harry, Draco, dear. I've a lovely roast joint Arthur's just carved. And Harry's favourite, treacle tart, for pudding after. Ready for luncheon?” 


	9. The One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claviform
> 
> Characteristics  
> Derived from the Latin word for "club-shaped", a standard claviform is defined as a vertical "P-sign", and is sometimes described by archeologists as a stylized female figure. See the oldest claviforms in the Altamira Cave paintings (c.34,000 BCE).  
> http://www.visual-arts-cork.com/prehistoric/abstract-signs.htm

It was in the Altamira caves in Cantabria, and a little over a month into their tour that Harry spontaneously sorted the hard, nasty fact that, of all the many people he ached for, all the ones he so wished to see and to speak to, it was Draco fucking Malfoy he missed the most. In a _most_ visceral way, and no amount of distraction seemed to alleviate that feeling. 

He examined the utterly ancient claviform before him--shaped a bit like the letter ‘P’ but not really--and knew instinctively that Altamira was the _where_ he should be, at the _when_ he should be, and that this cave with its Paleolithic symbols and glorious art spoke directly both to his magic and to his heart. No amount of missing Malfoy could change that. 

“Some Muggles think the claviform symbolized Woman,” Luna remarked idly, her expression serene. “In the motherly sense, I suppose. Logically enough.” 

“Perhaps it does, for them,” Harry nodded, casting carefully so as not to damage the adjacent artworks. “Though they view it through a different lens than we do. There, Luna! Do you see the Negatus? Luce was correct; there’s damage been done here. And deliberately.” 

“I see it, Harry,” Luna replied, coming to stand at his shoulder. She raised her wand, clasping his larger hand in hers. “Ready?” 

Harry jerked his chin, feeling the feathery trails of Luna’s magic meet and intertwine with his own. “Set.” 

With a simultaneous sharp slash downward and the left, they ended the Negatus, tearing it to harmless shreds, and then continued their flow of amplified casting on the upswing, sealing the affected glyph with Protectives and Conservators Charms. Luce would be by to ascertain all was well with it at a later time, naturally, being the resident Archmage. 

“Fuck!” Harry swore, inhaling deeply. “That was deep, Luna.” 

“Yes!” she gasped, half-laughing and falling away to sag against a rocky outcropping. “Quite. It’s more properly Me, of course. The One. But of course the feeling of Creation is very strong indeed here. And likely this One was indeed a female-feeling person.” 

“It is,” Harry agreed softly, gazing again at the claviform. “It definitely is. We should go, though,” he added, glancing back over his shoulder at the little knot of Muggles behind them. “No point in wearing out our welcome, is there? And it was only this one, fortunately.” 

He and Luna made nice with the helpful--and somewhat magically BeDazzled--group of Paleontological researchers who’d been kind enough to provide them access and then made their way to town. Antillana del Mar was chock-a-bloc with ancient and historical everything, just clotted with the venerable, but it was also awash with tourists and the two Mages happily took refuge in the ever-reliable Los Blasones for a much needed repast. 

“Harry?” Luna tilted her glass to the side, so that it nearly spilt, peering at him curiously though the pink glaze the receding wine had left behind. “Are you alright? You seem sad.” 

Harry smiled quickly, but it was a poor effort and he knew it. “Of course I’m alright. Just a bit wrecked by that last. You know the feeling?” 

“Of course I do.” Luna righted her glass and took a moment to sip some. She didn’t take her knowing gaze off Harry’s face, though. “But it’s not merely that,” she went on, her light languid voice at odds with the razor’s edge glint in her pale blue eyes. “You have a hole in you, I can feel it. Will you be able to make peace?” 

“I... _Yes_ ,” Harry replied staunchly. “I choose this, same as you. Not doing a bunk now, no fear.” 

“Never thought you would, Harry,” Luna said immediately, reaching out her free hand and placing it gently atop Harry’s wrist, fingers curling 'round in a faint echo of her steady grip from earlier. “Not for an instant. But I do wish you weren’t lonely like this. That’s all.” 

“Well,” Harry grinned, casting his glance covertly about the other diners. “Spain doesn’t lack for lovely people, does it? And a nice shag goes a long way to soothe away the pain, right? I’ll do, Luna. Don’t fret over me.” 

Luna blinked at him, long and slow, like a friendly cat. Smiled fleetingly, raising her glass in mute acknowledgment. 

“Alright, Harry.” 

“Alright. Yes.” He swallowed; his throat and mouth were deathly dry for some reason, so he hastily took another sip of wine, toasting Luna right back in as cheery fashion as he could manage. "Thanks, though." 


	10. A Novel Idea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Great Conjunction: Saturn, Venus and Mercury, June 2005.  
> https://science.nasa.gov/science-news/science-at-nasa/2005/22jun_spectacular#:~:text=Astronomers%20call%20it%20a%20%22conjunction,sunset%20on%20June%2020%2C%202005.
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Astrological_aspect  
> "In astrology, an aspect is an angle the planets make to each other in the horoscope, also to the ascendant, midheaven, descendant, lower midheaven, and other points of astrological interest. Aspects are measured by the angular distance in degrees and minutes of ecliptic longitude between two points, as viewed from Earth. According to astrological tradition, they indicate the timing of transitions and developmental changes in the lives of people and affairs relative to the Earth."

“Oh no! That’s bad luck, Draco,” Hermione exclaimed, sending ‘round drinks and crisps as they settled round the cozy kitchen dining nook in the Granger-Weasley house. She frowned thoughtfully off into the middle distance. “Hmm, I wonder if it’s not an infestation of some kind. Doxys and Imps have been particularly bad this year, for instance. And you both know Ron's been working on--”

“It’s not, Hermione,” Harry cut her off, scowling unhappily. “I talked it over with him already. It’s nothing to do with that case; I'd checked all the current open Auror files anyway and Imperius'd Ghouls are not Grimmauld's issue. Bill’s already confirmed it’s not any sort of Curse nor any Dark Magic. At least not for my house.” He glanced at his mate. "Draco?" 

“Not for the Manor either," Draco said. A hearty Molly Weasley luncheon and several hours spent in jolly company had done wonders for his nerves. "Wish it were that easy, what? But no. It’s sort of more sadly mundane, is what. Domestic, even. Mum says it does happen with the old homes,” he went on, shifting against the warm weight of Harry pressed up against his side. “They want to be useful, apparently, and ‘useful’ equates to chock o’block with family.” He shrugged philosophically. “It’s what they do, after all--house people. Ancient bloody Magic.” 

"Hmmm." Hermione nodded. 

“Grimmauld just spun into a downward spiral, I suppose,” Harry added. “Because of all the family strife and so on with the Wars. Then with me being gone for so very long--between uni and then my job--and Teddy not visiting at all during the last two years. Working theory is Grimmauld's been resigned to it, and mostly quiescent."

"Unlike Malfoy Manor," Draco chimed in, "which has been occupied for the most part, at least, by something like a 'family'. Until recently, of course. Now it's just me rattling around there. The Manor clearly doesn't care for that and it's made it very plain what it wants done to fix it up. Hence, the Nursery." 

"Right," Harry bobbed his chin, "but getting back to _my_ house. Draco calls it the Bawdy. I think it's only just waking up again to the full possibility of housing a proper Wizarding family again, and I suppose I’m the real reason for that. Living in it properly, at long last.” He jostled Draco as he sat back against the curved wooden back of the cushioned built-in. “Which isn’t a bad thing, you know? It’s just unlikely. Me, I meant. As a dad. A proper father-figure.”

“Oh, Harry.” Hermione giggled. “It’s not as though that really is a bad thing, you know.” She looked piercingly from Harry to Draco and back again, affixing him with her knowing dark eyes. “For some people, I mean. Absolutely not for everyone, though.” 

“Very unlikely, given your proclivity to bugger off for long periods of time, Potter,” Draco stuck in, carefully watching Granger’s face as she quietly entered her full concentration mode, absently tapping away at the rim of her glass with a fingernail and staring sternly at the childish scrawlings stuck all over her Muggle coolbox with Spellotape. "Though Grimmauld doesn't seem to know _you_ so well, mate, given it's yours now--and has been, really, for ages."

Hermione hummed. Harry pulled a long face, grimacing. 

Draco also winced, recalling his own troublesome Nursery with its newly enhanced Potter-appeal. Spiderwebs? Really? And that was attractive?

“Right, no. Cancel that. Grimmauld likely doesn't much care about _you_ personally, same as mine doesn't. In fact, it’s probably been slavering after an opportunity like this for eons, itching for the proper moment to tart it up and bludgeon its owner into coughing up the kiddos. You can’t blame it, really,” he added, turning his head to peep at Harry, who looked suitably dire. Very much as though as he’d been sucking a lemon. "I suppose."

“Excepting you _can_ ,” Harry said sourly, thinning his lips. “Well, _I_ can--and do." He turned pleading eyes to his best mate. "So, anything to give us on that front, Hermione? Thoughts? Suggestions? Solutions? Since it’s both of us now and it's crystal we're a bit fucked, currently.” 

“Well…”

Hermione cocked her head and regarded them thoughtfully in turn.

“Hmm. Harry, Draco. Have you considered just giving them what they want, you two? I mean, it’s not the end of the world to have a child.” She thumbed over her shoulder, smiling, indicating Ron amusing Rosie out in the back garden, clearly visible through the glass doors leading out to the welter of assorted greenery. She narrowed her eyes upon Draco in particular, and smiled toothily. “For example. Pansy is always telling me you dote on the twins, Draco, and I know you’ve been incredibly good with Teddy; Andromeda never stops singing your praises. Rosie is head o'er heels for you, always, and don't think I don't realize that feeling is mutual, alright? So. I’d think _you_ at least wouldn’t mind so much, your manor telling you to get a life. Or...a different sort of life, rather.” 

“Huh! You wish!”

Draco snorted and took hasty refuge in his wine, gulping down a mouthful so to avoid answering. Hermione was correct in her educated guess--he wouldn’t mind a steady partner and maybe even some children, one day--but decent relationships didn't fall off trees and all the good ones, the Wizards Draco would even consider as possible partners, were essentially taken. Even Theo, finally. Besides, it wasn't as though he really needed to have someone else in his life, no matter what the Manor had to say about it. 

The Manor was just being really self-serving, Draco decided. Grimmauld Place too. Selfishly wanting the patter of little footsteps and offering no real solutions as to the actual acquisition of same. 

"Well, I don't but maybe _you_ do, Draco," Hermione shot back, mischief glinting in her eyes. "What's that great astronomical Conjunction you've been going on about recently? Saturn, Venus and Mars, wasn't it? What's the astrological aspect on that, I wonder?"

“Oh, come on, Hermione, give the fuck over,” Harry replied, coming to Draco’s defense instantly. His green eyes flared with anger behind the frame of his specs. “Stars or no stars, he’s got a life already. A perfectly nice one, thanks. He doesn't require children to be happy. Nor do I, and it’s a bit harsh of you to imply it.” He made a vaguely disappointed face at Hermione, who countered it with a completely deadpan stare. “Not everyone needs or wants what you have, alright? Nice as it is.” 

“Tosh. That’s not what I meant, really,” she said, “and you know it, both of you. I literally just said that, not even a minute ago, Harry; were you even listening? No one requires children to feel happy and fulfilled and that's fact. But some people really do have a lot to gain from their interactions with children and the both of you are classic examples. At least on the surface, Harry. At least admit that.” 

“How so?” Draco demanded sharply, downing the remainder of his wine in one gulp. He coughed, raising a hand to cover his mouth politely. “Pardon.” 

“Of course.”

It wasn't as though he’d not had a few thoughts exactly along the same lines as what his friend was saying; it was just that it was difficult to verbalize. A nebulous wish and perhaps not even truly his own? 

“I mean,” Draco continued, smoothing the curt edge off his voice, “how are we two any different from anyone else, Hermione? There’s millions, perhaps billions of people out there in the world who aren’t seeking to make themselves married and pop sprog.” 

“Right; you asked. One,” Hermione grinned. She raised a slim hand and began to tick off items in a business-like fashion. “You both possess and dwell in quite elderly Wizarding homes of substance. Wizarding homes which are especially accustomed to housing fairly large families, judging by the sheer mass of them. Two, you’re both absolutely brilliant with children, all ages, and you know it.” She gave them both very stern looks, taking her time about it. “You both adore Teddy. And Rosie, and Pansy’s two, and Bill and Fleur’s, and--tell me, need I go on? No? No, I didn’t think so. Perfect candidates.”

“Bloody Athena, she is, always being bloody rational,” Draco muttered very softly, for Harry’s ears alone. “Not that I'm disagreeing with her.”

“Too right,” Harry murmured back. “Shhh!” 

“Three,” Hermione continued entirely unfazed, though she quirked a quizzical brow at Harry’s hissing, “this an unusual situation in and of itself, what with the sort of Magical sentience we’re encountering here making itself known so overtly. It’s extreme, abnormally so. Draco’s correct, I think; it’s an Ancient Magic at work, insidious and deep. I’ve no doubt in my mind at all that previous generations who’ve dwelt at Malfoy Manor and Grimmauld Place have never even questioned to what degree they were influenced by their homes when they made their personal choices as to whether to have children--or not. They just sort of did it, went with the flow, and didn’t suffer any existential crises about being manipulated by a smart stack of brick-and-mortar--”

“Oh, yes,” Draco nodded eagerly, in full agreement. “Population. That’s a valid point there, Hermione. Wizarding society was all about increasing the ranks, from the very dawn of our history. Family is incredibly important to us as a society. There’s always been relatively few of us, a tiny fraction as compared to the Muggles, so rather naturally--”

“Rather naturally,” Harry allowed with a heavy sigh, “it follows that Wizarding homes, especially the really ancient ones, would become imbued with a quite strident sense of purpose, developing over time the goal of encouraging Wizarding folk to have as many children as they possibly could manage. Uh-huh, I see exactly what you’re saying here, Hermione. The two of us, we seem like perfect targets.”

“Good.” Hermione smiled, pleased. "It's best if you understand that these aren't malicious acts against either of you. More a matter of survival, I should think, at least from the perspective of your houses. They wish to thrive once more, and you're the available vessels. Means to an end, that's all." 

“Yes?” Harry looked expectantly at Hermione. “Do you think we should simply sell off the properties, then? Because if that’s the logic, then it’s not going to stop on its own, this campaign to make us both become parents. But if it's not personal, then I'd rather not stick about and be continually browbeaten. I've gone off eels altogether and red velvet does less than nothing for me. Not exactly helping me do well at work, either.” 

“Oi!” Draco gasped, shocked to the core. "What?!"

He reared back and stared aghast at his friend, nearly tumbling off the narrow bench seat they shared.

"Huh? What?" Harry and Hermione both turned to stare at him, the one curious, the other concerned. "You alright there?" 

"Draco?"

“Oi, Potter!" Draco glared daggers at his irksome, entirely barmy friend. "No, I am not 'alright'! Bloody fucking Merlin, of course I'm not 'alright'! I’m not just about to up and sell Malfoy simply because my home is infected with an uncontrollable mating impulse! Are you mad? You must be absolutely frothing, even suggesting that! And you? You! What about Grimmauld Place? Cousin Sirius would be spinning in his grave, if he had a proper one! He’d never, ever want you to sell off the home he left you! You should be ashamed of yourself, Potty.” 

"Oh, but--"

"No! Shut it!"

Draco faced Hermione, grey eyes narrowed and accusing.

“How could you? How could you even sow that horrible thought in his fucking fertile Gryffindor mind, Granger-Weasley? Talk about extreme measures! You _know_ how much effort I’ve put into the Manor, to return it back to the Light--you and Ronald have come and helped me, for Merlin’s sake! How could you even suggest I give up my home, the home of my family for eons?” 

“No, no, no, stop it at once, Draco,” Hermione shushed and soothed. “I’m not the one suggesting you sell off the Manor, that was this idiot here.” She thumbed over at Harry, who looked a bit put-upon. “But maybe...just maybe..? Something more like...”

“Yes? Talk,” Harry prompted, looking severely unimpressed with the entire business. “Tell me yours if you don't like mine, then. Because we’ve tried everything there is to try. Even the Unspeakable things that I can’t even properly speak of, they're of no use and don't think I'm even the slightest bit--”

“Yes, shut it, Potter,” Draco said, clapping a hand over Harry’s mouth. “Let her speak, then. Hermione?” 

“Er...yes. Um. Try moving out?” Hermione grinned weakly, humping a hopeful shoulder at them. “I mean, there’s not much else you can do, really. Short of selling up altogether. It's another option, is all. Put them to let, perhaps, find yourselves a decent flat together, and wait for it all to die down and blow over. Eventually they’ll probably give it up, you know, Ancient Magic or no. No House, not even a Wizarding one, can maintain that level of stress for too long. They'll go quiescent again, as Harry said.” 

“Oh! Hmmm,” Draco hummed, tapping at his chin with a long finger. "Perhaps..." He pressed a little harder up against Harry’s side, trying to bring him back to the present and out of the ill-tempered funk that had settled over him like a damp cloud. “You know, that’s not a bad notion. Temporarily, at least. Harry, what do you think? Are you game for it?” 

“Hmph!” Harry scowled and shifted. “Maybe. I certainly can't manage the way it is now. I suppose it’s not a bad idea. Bit passive, but I certainly can’t think of a better one just off the top of my head and believe me, I’ve been thinking so much I’ve got a permanent headache installed. Well...That could be my diet, too. It's been mostly horrid. Thank Merlin for Millicent; she keeps me alive.” 

“Alright,” Hermione nodded happily, and flicked her wand at the wine bottle. It promptly refilled their glasses and then bobbed off discreetly. “It's settled. Let’s drink to that, shall we? And tomorrow I’ll help you two with your flat search. I daresay neither of you have ever even gone through that _so_ pleasant experience, have you. Leasees too, for yours. No sense in letting them sit empty. You’ll likely want to find someone with children--or someone who desperately desires them. Be kinder to your homes that way; let them down softly?”

“Oh! Right on, Hermione,” Draco said happily, a great more enthused about life than he’d been for some time. "The Manor will like that, very much. A willing victim. Yours, too, Harry. There's bound to be some couple out there in Wizard-dom who really craves that genuine brothel experience. Takes all sorts, right?"

He smiled craftily behind the cover of his wine glass, glancing between his two friends. Hermione seemed full of calm purpose and Harry was not shouting objections. In fact, he looked far more at peace and thoughtful. Which meant he'd ultimately agree, the silly bugger. Then Draco would have his comfortable old roomie back and perhaps some actual companionship in his evenings as opposed to the host of painted whingy Malfoy ancestors he had now.

That was--Draco blinked reflectively over the thought--if Harry could be convinced to ease up now that he was the actual Head of Department of Mysteries. Firming his chin, Draco resolved that this would indeed be the case. His mate had had nearly two years solely devoted to his career, gallivanting off with next to no notice and disappearing without a trace, and it had definitely paid off for him, position-wise, but now it was past time for him to relax, perhaps even lounge about on his laurels. 

“No, it's definitely settled, Hermione," he said after a long moment. "A toast to your native ingenuity, oh Brightest Witch!” He raised his glass in salute, enjoying her slight blush. "See? Harry's stopped sulking already. Good man." 

“Fine, fine! Cheers, Hermione,” Harry allowed, lips twitching. "I wasn't, you know. Doing that. Not five, and not a spoilt brat, either. Not like some I know." He toasted her, sending Draco a teasing glance. "But still. To you too, Malfoy, for showing willing to give up the Manor. At least for a little while.” 

"Git," Draco replied smartly, but with no heat to it. "No one is five anymore, not even Teddy." 

"Not true!" Hermione pointed to the two romping about in the garden, smiling broadly. "As you see, chaps. Am I not right?" 

Harry glanced out the glass patio doors and took in the sight of his other best mate, wholeheartedly engaged in playing some sort of very messy game involving paint and Charmed bubbles and miniature catapults with his very small daughter, and laughed and laughed. Draco joined in, fondly. 


	11. 365, the Solstice and Counting

It resembled nothing so much as a simple, common, garden-variety daisy, drawn by his little godson. Excepting it was 2,500 years old, and radiating powerful magic in every direction. 

Harry sighed, peering closely down at The Flower from his broom, squinting through his goggles. His flying leathers creaked and squeaked as he shifted his seating, pointing his wand tip carefully so as to accurately trace the long stem and looping leaves of The Flower. Luna and Ichika-san hovered at either side, each occupied with examining various other sprawling figures marking the arid Nazca plateau. 

Nazca was a source of constant headache to the informal association of Mages worldwide whose business it was as Conservators, Protectors and Creators of Runes, Sigils, Glyphs, Ikons, Graphs, Etcetera to do precisely those tasks: conserve and protect the remnants of the elders. Create new ones, too, as needed, although Nazca was not lacking. It was more the straying or careless Muggles, or the ones with no respect or understanding, than any Magical threat which concerned Harry and Luna this fine day. 

Two days previous he and Luna had been busy in Poland; a day prior to that, racketing about Norway. There, yes, there were always Dark Magic forces at work, attempting to wrest the power of the Elder Signs to their own petty nefarious purposes. But Nazca had generally proved smooth sailing until recently, the last real Dark flare-ups in the area having occurred more than fifty years before his and Luna’s Journeymenship. 

“Ichika-san?” Luna called over to their local guide, a young Mage recently graduated from Mahoutokoro and now attending the Master’s programme at Castelobruxo. “Has UNESCO been recently? I see some minor damage but it’s likely not a concern of ours, particularly. Environmental.” She looked to Harry inquisitively. “Thoughts, Harry?” 

Their helpful young Japanese scholar frowned and shrugged, flapping a hand in an ‘I don’t know’ gesture, yanking her broom about side-ways so she could face them. 

“Luna-san, I believe a Muggleborn colleague at Yamagata has contacted the Magical Attaché there, yes, but nothing much has come of it yet,” she replied, her soft voice nearly carried away by the constant steady wind. “Takahashi-san has persisted but the organization is always very busy. They barely have time to spare for us here.” 

“Hmm,” Harry nodded his understanding. “It is the same in Europe and the UK, and don’t even ask us about Africa or the Middle East. Too many Muggles; hard to keep track of the bad apples amongst them. Not when our business is fending off the bloody Wizarding rotters. But, no,” he added, shifting his gaze over to Luna. “I see nothing that a few simple Conservatus castings won’t fix. Shall we?” 

“Of course,” Luna beamed. “My dear, if you’ll come over nearer me, we shall try the Hygieian on them, using the concerted cast method. You know it?” 

“I do!” Ichika-san exclaimed excitedly. “I shall be honoured. I have studied it many times and cast it in Praxis, but never in the field. This is so much--”

“Hard work!” Harry interjected, laughing. "So much hard work, is what it is." He directed his broom farther off to the side and allowed his position to drift back, leaving Luna at the forefront of the trio. “Trust me, you’ll not be wanting to do it again too soon, Ichika-san. Right, are you ready, Luna?” 

“I am,” Luna replied, both hands clasped about the base of her wand, her broom gently shifting to-and-fro beneath her bum to keep her balanced as she flew hand’s free. Harry and Ichika-san swiftly followed suit, each one of them pointing their wands at the tip of Luna’s. “Are you?” 

“Yes!” Ichika-san shouted, a sudden gust making her bounce up and down. Yet her wand remained steady and aligned, as did Harry’s. The tip of Luna’s wand had apparently caught fire: a halo of brilliantly white light coruscated from it, the shimmer would’ve been blinding without their protective eye-gear. “Youi!”

“Set,” Harry proclaimed to the winds, glancing fondly down at the Flower.

“ _Don_ ,” Luna announced, and the combined cast from all three Mages fairly exploded out of the tip of her wand. “Go!”

[B O O M]

A radius of Magic spread like the inexorable tide for well over a hundred miles all the way round the three of them, drenching the Flower, the Monkey, the Dog, the Tree, the Phytomorphs and all the rest, even unto the Cat and the Paracas Candelabra. It settled slowly down across the greater coastal landscape, a fine particulate rain of Binds, Bonds, and Restoratives, a bracing tonic for the signs, marks and messages left behind by those who had come before. 

It went on seemingly endlessly, and Harry’s blood thrummed through his veins with a sustained burst of adrenaline, his heart feeling massive and topsy-turvy-tilting in his chest. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Ichika-san flagging, her cheeks--pinked by the winds--paling, her broom drifting down uncertainly. 

“Fuck! Luna!” he shouted, looking forward to the back of his friend, steadily maintaining position at the apex of their triangle. “She's in trouble! Assist?”

He saw her nod quickly and turned his full gaze towards Ichika-san. She was visibly wobbly, ghastly as a ghost, but her spine remained ramrod straight and her wand pointed yet to supernovae star burning atop Luna’s. 

“ _Spatium,_ ” he and Luna cast together, ululating the syllables and overlaying the strengthening spell atop the _basso profundo_ throb of their Hygieian. The triangular flight pattern they’d been maintaining all through became visible at last, a strong ribbon of green light springing to life and wrapping their wind-whipped forms together via their core heartlines. “Vires In Numeris-- **Vires In Numeris**!” 

A second stretched endlessly. Then another. Harry scowled, every muscle tensed to peel out and over if necessary. But...

“Whew! Yokatta!”

Ichika-san bobbed back up again, pink-cheeked, looking a lot less likely to imminently expire and huffing in her relief, the sound nearly lost on the wave of the ever-present desert winds and subsonic white noise of sustained concert casting.

“Thank you!" she called out to them. "Arigato gozaimasu!” 

"No worries," Harry grinned widely at her, profoundly relieved he'd not have to perform a Wronski as well as the damned Hygieian. He saw Luna nod acknowledgement out of the corner of his eye. "Happens all the time, Ichika-san; we're accustomed. Carry on, then." 

In no time she'd corrected course and was flying strongly once more, her lips set in a thin determined line and her eyes fixed upon the darting figure that was Luna, leading them in an ever-larger spiral about the sky till every last sacred Line was Conserved and Protected.

Their cast continued all through, unabated, the showers of magic thickening in the air and settling like invisible rain into the undisturbed dusts and sediments below. Already the Lines looked fresher, more potent, as if the magical rain had infused them with new life and clarity. Harry began to pant near the end of of it; he’d not been joking when he’d said it was hard work, the Hygieian, and he knew they’d all be exhausted by the time they went straggling back to the quarters they’d been given at Castelobruxo. 

* * *

“Merlin, my bloody head,” Luna moaned the next morning, drooping over her heaped plate of breakfast, one set of fingers gripped fast to the handle of a ceramic mug of strong black coffee, the other set delicately pinching at the bridge of her nose. She peered up at him, her pale blue eyes bloodshot. “Oh. 'Morning, Harry. Are you faring any better than I? I do hope so, for your sake.” 

“No,” Harry replied gruffly, looking about him for another clean mug and grabbing up the carafe the University Elves had kindly left for them. “I’m bloody well not. Hmm." Pouring out, he noticed Luna was alone at the long table. "Oi. Ichika-san alright?” 

“Infirmary,” Luna answered simply, wordlessly holding out her own mug for a top-up. She shook her head carefully, wincing as she did. “Pepper Ups and a full day’s rest, the Healer said. Poor thing.” 

“Huh,” Harry grunted, pouring the larger part of his coffee down his dry and aching throat, even though it was still on the verge of scalding. It was spoon-dissolving strong and very highly caffeinated and that was exactly what was needed. “Not surprised. Shes’s a hard goer, has a lot of spirit to her, but still. Bit much when you’re not accustomed.” 

“Indeed,” Luna agreed, mustering up a weak smile. “Bit much when you are, too.” 

“Yes. We should likely kip over again, then, tonight,” Harry suggested, pouring out his second mug and feeling sufficiently restored to doctor it up with lashings of table cream and some local honey. He met Luna's weary gaze over the rim of it. “Seriously. Shan’t do anyone much good with the state we’re in now. I don’t much fancy Portkeying to the Netherlands; do you?” 

“Oh, no,” Luna shook her head, apparently giving up on the concept of eating any of the delicious food in front of her. She gently shoved her plate offsides, then idly resettled her unused cutlery into its proper setting. “No. Not a bit of it. Good idea, Harry. We should Owl ahead, though. Or floo. Meneer De Oude will be expecting us.” 

“I’ll do it. I'm off out anyway, down to the town for a little shop,” Harry offered, perking up under the effects of his beverage and eying Luna’s discarded plate with interest. “You go back to bed, Luna. You look as though you could do with another eight hours. Perhaps also a Pepper Up of your very own."

"Silly! But...alright.” 

Luna giggled, promptly discarding her coffee. She rose unsteadily to her feet, her lemon-hued sundress and scarlet-patterned shawl swishing about her, and cast the swathe of her abundant hair over one shoulder. 

“You’re sweet, Harry,” she said, leaning precariously across the tabletop and dropping a quick buss upon his scar. “And my perennial favourite Wizard, as always. Ta, then.” 

“Cheers,” Harry replied, shooing her off and trying to quell the light blush that had sprung unbidden to his stubbly cheeks. “I’ll roust you before dinner time, no fear.” 

Left to his own devices and much restored after a hearty meal and the remainder of the coffee, Harry asked directions of a passing Elf and then wandered off down the hilly slopes to the local village.

Like Hogsmeade, it was a Wizarding enclave, and the high street was bustling with students and professors, naturally, but also rather a lot of other people, and there were quite a few merchants. Harry cast a Translation Charm on himself and proceeded to purchase a few small items he was in need of immediately. He couldn’t procure gifts for his friends, of course--as an Unspeakable on active duty, it was naturally forbidden to betray his physical location at any given time--but he could acquire some replacement supplies to his Potions stores. 

As he went along he kept an eye out for things to augment his own personal set of Runestones.

Not that every Runestone absolutely had to be made of stone; far from it! Journeymen Mages from the Isles had the long-standing habit of creating their own very special collection of stones, gems, pottery bits, wooden items and woven-works, and then magically inscribing them with their own especial markings. It was a quite elderly tradition and Flamel’s instructors had been enthusiastic about students continuing on with it. But with a bit of a twist in recent years.

Ever since the English Wizards had once again felt free to move about the larger world--or, to put it bluntly, once Harry had ended Voldemort’s reign of horror--the DoM Wizarding staff who concentrated on Runes in particular had re-expanded their knowledge of foreign Runes by veritable leaps and bounds of a Giant’s Boots. Even during the years Harry had been attending uni a global network of sorts had been sprung up amongst all the many Wizarding folk who were drawn to the understanding and use of the magical signs, sigils and glyphs left by their own local Elders. It was, naturally enough, not a new idea, but rather a reinstatement of an absolutely ancient practise that had been largely suppressed by the likes of the Death Eaters and their following. The Head of DoM, a Witch by name of Alys Gaenor, decreed that the Runes Journeymenship would also immediately be restored. 

Harry had been approached by one of the Mysteries representatives for a potential position even before he'd begun his final year of study. 

Of course he'd literally had not a single solitary clue he’d ever be someone like that, really. He’d always fancied himself as an Auror, as soon as he’d turned eleven, gone full-on Magical and learnt what an Auror was. It wasn’t till near the end of his second year at uni, once Ron and Hermione had completed their courses of study and it was evident Malfoy was staying on to pursue a higher level in Astronomy that Harry had stumbled into what quickly became his obsession: Ancient Runes. 

He thought of Draco, naturally enough, as he moved about the market, seeking out bits-and-pieces to add to his collection of possibilities. The bothersome, nosy git had become his roommate by then, what with Ron and Neville matriculating and moving on, and he’d been instrumental in dragging Harry off to a Runes elective course ‘for a lark, Potty’. But it had sucked Harry’s somewhat dilatory devotion to academics right up, and right smart about it, no question. All those years he’d spent solving the puzzle that was Voldemort (and Grindelwald before him), all that energy he’d believed would be best slaked by becoming an Auror? Well, it had found a shiny new sluice-gate to pour through--he winced internally at his own mediocre metaphor--and turned into a great roaring river, one leading to an enormous, inviting sea of fascination beyond. 

Runes, of course, as the UK Wizards understood them. So, some derived from the Norse and some from the Picts and then the Romans, the Druids and various tribes and bands that had occupied the Isles over time. But not only those. Harry learnt of others. The larger world was full of many different sorts: the staves of the Baltic areas, the worn-away glyphs and faded pictographs, the markings and scratchings on tipped-over standing stones, the painted ochre and charcoal handprints found hidden away within caverns and mounds. All of these and many, many more, in Europe and Africa and all the continents--they had spoken to him. The magic of those ancient Elder messages shouting out, down from the times even before mankind--and Wizarding kind--had even begun to bury their dead, all of them called out to Harry, and he could not help but to _listen_. 

The voices, stark and silent, were insistent, even contained as they were before him in the fastnesses of old scrolls and thick tomes. Harry signed himself up for the Mage level coursework with absolutely no hesitation and then bloody excelled at it, surprising not only a few of his old Hogwarts profs and his mates, but also himself with the degree of his devotion. Malfoy, however? 

Bloody Draco Malfoy had not been the slightest surprised by this new avid Harry. Oh, no. The arse only laughed up his sleeve and made smirking faces at him whenever Harry complained of the assignments he’d piled upon him. But he’d also helped him revise, just as he’d quietly aided poor Ron when he'd had to complete his final slog through uni-level Potions to obtain his desired degree in Forensic Magics. Yes, Draco was a bit of a contrary arse, but he was also a bit of a poser, too. Always playing it cool and then being just right there, helping a mate out, no fanfare about it. The utter git.

Wandering about the market place, Harry thought of the Spider and the Flower and the Tree, parts of a Whole, and the meanings therein that spoke to Wizarding folk. For though the Nazca Lines had been made mostly by Muggles, Wizardkind had still dwelt amongst them, and far more freely before the earliest of the Old World invaders had arrived. Magic was integral to living, part of everyday existence back then, and the lines between blurred very thin. Life to life, and forward together, Harry thought, his mind flashing to Altamira. 

(Incidentally, Draco had even half-mockingly cheered Harry on when a routine visit to the Ministry during Third Year for a crash-course in the inner workings of Mysteries had led to a chance meeting--and some rather spiffing shagging--with Harry's old Gryffindor Team Captain, Oliver Wood. A memorable shag which had become a repeated fling which had then morphed into an actual affair. Millicent Bulstrode, who was then attending Flamel by Owl and interning at the Mysteries Head Office meanwhile, must have been the one who kept the pointy bastard up to date on the details of Harry's on-again, off-again thing with the delectable Ollie for he never failed to tease Harry about it mercilessly. The ridiculously irritating and damnably _nosy_ git! And then bloody Mills, Harry's annoying mate who was a positive vampire for gossip.)

But that fling with Oliver was long over, naturally. One didn't keep a lover when one was Journeying. Not usually, at least. It was all too exhausting enough, already. 

Exhausting, perhaps, but immensely satisfying. Harry smiled for no reason as he picked over a small pile of polished chrysocolla at a quite posh stall, admiring the blues and greens of them and intricate patterns within, devised by nature itself. One would do for a Rune, he decided, catching it up and eying it critically, with the same degree of learned assessment he and his fellow Mages had employed the day prior, flying over Nazca. Yes, Hygieia was horribly draining and left a chap face flat on the ground after, but it was also their calling, their avocation, and they would continue to use it and others like it, whatever the personal cost. The Lines themselves were again fully restored for the nonce, sharp and elegant and as refulgent of power as they’d ever been, thousands of years ago in the times of their making. His Flower bloomed, and would for years to come.

"Oh! I believe I'll have that one as well, thank you!" 

On impulse, Harry selected a second gem and held it out to the shopkeep. It was a starred stone, far paler blue than the rest, the colour of Luna’s tranquil gaze in a certain light. Or more of Draco’s perhaps, reflecting marine in the mottled faint light of his Will O’the Wisp Orb charm and the violet-dawn shadows, glimpsed atop the Observatory Tower at Flamel at four o’clock of a morning. Harry spent many long weary hours there, yes, keeping his mate awake with idle chatter and coming over to his 'scope to exclaim with hastily mustered enthusiasm whenever Draco seemed especially chuffed by some configuration or coordination or con-whatever. A form, made of gas balls floating about billions of miles away; meaningful to _him_ , at least.

Harry could relate. 

The Lines were messages, meant for descendants, direct from the ones who had lived eons before Harry, Luna and Ishika-san had come to listen and to see what the Lines had to say, of course. For long ago there was magic to be found merely in not only eking out a daily living but also in the deliberate creation of the great Places, the Channels and the Paths and the Leylines of water and air, birds and other creatures, resounding of the lives of the People themselves and the other lives abounding large and small about them. One could be a simple little daisy; one could be great cat, one could be a Wizard or Witch or a Muggle who dwelt amongst them--one could be anything at all, and every one of those was precious and necessary. 

Draco, like the Spider, laid in wait quietly, a curious creature who was subtle and mostly beneficial. Like the Condor, he sailed high in his precious skies, telling over the shapes of the constellations, deriving their meaning, their movements. As with the Tree and the Flower, he--as well as Harry and his mates--had bloomed and come far more into his own being as a person in the safe creche that was uni. They had all not so much ‘redeemed’ themselves, Harry believed, but had simply grown older and wiser and deeper through their experiences there, with their new knowledge freely shared between them and the always-present reliance upon each other. 

Smiling thanks at his friendly jeweler, Harry pocketed his two new acquisitions and meandered his slow way back to the confines of the Peruvian School of Magic, yawning. There was yet time for a little lie down and he rather was in need of one, the effects of his coffee haviing worn off some hours previous. It would soon enough be time for dinner, Luna would hopefully be recovered and there might already be a reply from Meneer De Oude as to the recent reports of troubles in the Maastricht tunnels. 

Harry yawned again, stripping off his clothes and stuffing away his small finds in his travelling kit. He’d save his second chrysocolla stone, keep it in his Mokeskin for later. Two years gone away was a long time, yes, but it wasn’t forever. 

Three hundred sixty-five days had, after all, already fled behind him, a collection of tastes and smells and magics, touches and views and well-met strangers he could simply not imagine being without. Solstice morning dawning over a desert resplendent with the symbols of Pre-Columbian magic? 

No. He'd have been horribly bereft without knowing it all first-hand, and that was that. 


	12. And They Were Roommates

“Budge over, will you, and hand me the telly wand thingamajig, please?” 

Harry grunted. But didn’t look up from the battered old book he was perusing intently. Nor did he make the slightest effort to hand Draco the telly wand. 

“Fine, you wanker, be that way about it. Don’t mind me. Helping myself.” 

Draco flopped himself down by Harry on the settee and leant across to snatch up the remote himself, manfully not giving into the temptation to rudely jostle his mate's reading material. He flicked on the telly, landing by chance on The Doctor. The Muggles were quite obsessed with The Doctor and Draco did have to admit the story was a bit intriguing. He left it playing out of sheer unwillingness to channel-hop, hoping for some small measure of amusement whilst he waited for Potter to surface and acknowledge his existence. The talking box was generally good for at least that much. But idiot Potter relentlessly read on and on by Draco's side, eyes narrowed into a painful looking squint, scowling and occasionally mumbling beneath his breath. Fucking oblivious to everything, even that amazing Captain Harkness. 

“Wanker,” Draco grumbled after several endlessly long minutes, glaring at the device as if it mortally offended him. "Just ignore me, why don't you?" He sniffed, loudly, and elbowed his mate's ribs in a mately fashion. “Be like that, then.” 

He hadn't expected a reply and of course he didn’t get one. Potter was just like that, sometimes. 

“See if I care.” 

Honestly, Potter was like that all too often. This 'companionship' lark was not all it was cut up to be. 

Draco sighed, lounging fully back and propping his long legs up upon the coffee table.

It was late in the evening and he was knackered as fuck, but all-in-all it had been a fine day's work he'd put in. The youngest Abraxans had been cooperative with short sprinting flights in their enclosure, Luna had evinced a real and solid interest in the day-to-day work of maintaining the prized Malfoy honeybee hives. Her paramour Rolf had proved a dab hand with directing the field management plan for the Home Farm; the courgettes were longer and firmer than ever before. Both of them seemed to be in the veriest pink of health and blissfully well shagged after a mere month in residence. The Manor had provided Draco a luncheon hamper of simple but hearty sandwiches and cress soup, with nary a raw oyster or champered strawberry in sight. 

Best by far, his ancestral pile no longer hummed with that horrid invisible tension which had previously stretched Draco’s last nerve to its snapping point. In fact, it seemed to have taken on an air of chipper good cheer and contentment, sated by the unending sex Draco's new tenants were enjoying. So much so that Draco was finally allowed to complete his many tasks in blissful peace and quiet, _sans_ unexpected flights of child-sized hobby-horses down the stairwells and painfully abrupt showers of monogrammed silver rattles and tiny booties during breakfast. 

It was a decided pleasure, really, to be no longer in residence. And the homesickness he’d dreaded feeling had completely failed to materialize. 

In all that lovely P&Q he’d even managed several hours concentrated effort on his latest submission to _Celestial Happenings, The Wizarding Journal For All Those Spinning Things In the Sky_. It was coming along nicely, Draco felt sure, and he’d probably be able to easily strip out the Wizarding references and submit a much simpler version of same to _Astronomische Nachrichten_. That should cement his reputation as a highly regarded young astronomer amongst the Muggles and Draco did so love to work smart and not hard. 

His stomach rumbled, quite unexpectedly, a great long growl. Startled, Draco blinked at the telly, shaking off the hazy thrall.

"Oi?" He turned his head to see if Potter had heard it too, his embarrassingly loud gurgle. “Hey, have you dined?” he enquired, gently elbowing his friend the lump again for good measure. “Potter!” 

“Mnhm.” Potter licked his lips and painstakingly turned another fragile-looking page, grunting. "Nmgh."

“Huh. Oh, really? Is that so?” Draco turned on the sarcasm full-spigot, handing back a hard stare. “Well, I’d wager you’ve not. Because you hadn't, before. But I can fix that, you know, if you'll just--” 

Draco trailed off, gesturing vaguely with the remote. Potter did not reply, as such. He turned another page instead, scanning it so fast Draco half expected his silly toad-coloured eyeballs to start spinning. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Draco informed him. Because he was, really. "Too much." 

It was a nasty pattern Draco couldn’t help but notice, especially now they shared a flat. Harry was a bloody workaholic, worse even than Draco--or even Hermione, which was saying rather a lot. Of course, he had an immensely demanding position and he never seemed to actually leave it behind him, even if he’d departed his actual office. He ended up every night upon the sofa, too often sunk in the abysses of work he brought along home with him to pay much attention to Real Life happening around him, no matter how good his stated intentions were. Thus Draco was of the decided opinion it was a decent thing he could and should do for his good friend, to remind him firmly of those little necessities. Proper meals, and social commitments, and the like. Breathing, perhaps.

But ‘specially the meals. Draco could cook and would; Harry could cook but didn't particularly care for it. Neither of them were exactly keyed into eating things they should, when they should. Veg, salads, all that. It was all a leftover habit from uni days, Draco figured, but that didn't mean it had to continue. Or perhaps it was related to their individual recent experiences navigating the sexually-themed cuisines both Grimmauld Place and the Manor had on offer. Honestly, a month or more unrelenting of eels and oysters, strawberries soaked in champers and steak tartare every single fucking meal time could radically damage a person’s appetite, Draco was fairly certain. Especially--in his own case--when it was interspersed with mashed yam, baby rice, rusks, and Bird’s Custard. 

“Potter," he said, firming his chin. "Look. I am here, right beside you, and I am asking you a question, yes? Tell me you didn’t eat when you got home and I’ll hex you,” he went on equably enough, striving for a reasonable, rational tone, one that might finally penetrate. “No, better than that. Tell me you _did_ eat like an actual adult does at dinner time but that you’re still somewhat peckish and I’ll tell you something better instead.” He glanced pointedly at their coffee table, where he’d slung the shrunken packets of takeaway. And smiled grimly. “Yes, indeed. Something very nice, Potter. Potter. **_Potter_**.” 

“Mngh? Wha?”

"Oh, Merlin, how I hate you sometimes. Come on, Harry. Pay attention!" 

Harry--the infuriating git--at last deigned to glance up from his bastarding mouldy old tome, eyes wide behind his smudged specs. 

“Draco! Oh!” he exclaimed. He twitched visibly under the concentrated stare Draco had perfected many years previous. “Didn’t even see you there. Oi, when did you get home?” 

“Ten minutes ago, maybe,” Draco advised him calmly, breathing out silently. He clicked off the telly and cast down the controller. “And? What of it?” 

“Well, you could have said something!” Harry scowled darkly, closing his book on his forefinger with a peeved little thump. He twisted about to face Draco full-on, ripping his specs off his face and rubbing a hand over a set of clearly tired eyes. “Gah. I’ve been holding off supper for ages!” 

“Oh, really?” 

Harry leant forward and cast aside his book, consigning it to the long, low coffee table they’d finally both agreed was the most possibly perfect table for that purpose but a mere two weeks previous. Before that they employed Draco’s old school trunk, until Harry complained one too many times his feet always slid off and nothing stayed atop it without a sticking spell. 

“You have, have you?” Draco drawled, sitting back again and crossing his arms across his chest. He sniffed. They’d played this same scene out numerous times since they’d moved into the flat. “That’s bleeding hilarious, Potter. You weren’t even home two hours ago, when I left a floo message at your office asking you to let me know whether I should pick up food and Millicent said you were deep in it and she’d not heard a peep out of you since luncheon. How would you ever had time to make supper, here at home? You were at work.” 

“It’s a casserole, git,” Harry smiled widely, all glinting eyes and canines. “What?” He blinked slowly at Draco, as if he were as innocent as the July days were long. “Did you think I’d cooked something willingly? Oh, no. Kreacher just goes on with sending them over and I just go one with casting reheating spells them when you’re not paying attention."

"Excuse me?!" Draco interjected, mildly enraged. "I always pay--"

"No you don't," Harry snapped back. "Like I said, it's bloody reheated casserole, so I can at least get some nutrition into the both of us, on some sort of regular schedule. And you weren't paying attention at all even just an hour ago yourself, because I sent an Owl off to the Manor and you never responded.” He shook his head, lips pursed, emanating some species of self-righteous disapproval.

Draco scowled. He could practically hear Potter’s unsaid ‘So there, wanker!’ 

“Tosh!" he scoffed. "If you did, then I never responded because I’d already gone. I was off picking up Thai for us!” Draco sniffed indignantly. “In Muggle London, where Owls aren’t supposed to go! Because I’d not heard a peep from you--as usual, mind--and I knew you had some hush-hush project going on and I also bloody fucking absolutely knew you’d likely not even had eaten luncheon, much less any supper. Millie as much as said so. So! Pardon me for attempting to keep you stationed on this corporeal plane, Potter. So sorry for trying to help your sorry arse out-- _not_.” 

“Oh. Right, okay,” Harry huffed a weary sigh, deflating. “My fault. Sorry, sorry. I didn’t open any more Owls or check the Floo after four p.m.; we’d back-to-back meetings via the International floo till eight o’clock and then I had a mountain of--ah! Right, sorry, enough of my nonsense. I really can’t tell you the details of it all anyway. It was just--just bloody work, as always. And it’s just my bad--again!--and I am honestly sorry for snapping, Malfoy. Alright?”

Draco smiled, the tense set of his shoulders evaporating. 

“Oh, Potty. Of course it’s alright; it’s not as though I’m not accustomed.” 

“Right, and I apologize again, for that.” 

Harry stuck his hands in his hair, ruffling it up into a charming disarray. He’d left his specs off and his eyes were huge and still a little haunted. 

“Bollocks," he said, slipping them on again and peering over at Draco. "Tell me, why is it so difficult to find time for basic things like eating? Maybe even sleeping?” 

“ _Harry_ \--”

“No. I’m serious.” He rolled his eyes back in his head and regarded their ceiling with a pout, thumping his back against the cushions. “Really, Draco; listen. Tell me, what does the Ministry have against a proper weekend? I don't think I’ve had even a spare hour to myself since I got called back from Osl--ergh! Um, my last foreign assignment, I meant. You didn't hear me say Oslo, Malfoy. Because, you know, if you had--”

“You’d have to kill me; yes, I know, Harry,” Draco replied, flipping a casual two fingers. “Right, no, as to that. I don't know why the Ministry is so difficult, really. I’m only just joyous that I’ve never felt the need to work there. But returning to the important things now. Which do you want, then, the Thai or what Kreacher sent? I’ll bring that in if you’d rather; I’m off to the kitchen for a beer anyway.” 

“Thai, I think, ta,” Harry replied, leaning forward to make a space for their soon-to-be supper plates on the table. Which was mostly accomplished by his spelling of everything piled onto it over to the antique bureau Draco had carted over from his study in the Manor. “There, now. Ah. Would you mind bringing me one too?” 

Draco was already on his feet and walking towards their kitchen, a well appointed room Harry tended to avoid like the plague. He glanced back over his shoulder. 

“No fear, I shall not deny you this simple pleasure,” he smirked. “Merlin knows you don’t get all that many, Potter. Be right back--oh, and please Scourgify that?” He pointed at the table’s surface. “Teddy was here with Andromeda, remember? There was a plethora of that Muggle Playing Dough spread all over it. That shite sticks like the dickens.” 

“Right, on it.”

Harry spelled it clean and even went so far as to summon a tablecloth from the linens cupboard, shrinking it down to an appropriate size and accessorizing it with some rather fetching matching napkins Narcissa had Owled them over from Italy. 

“Lovely,” Draco commented, coming back into the room, a tray with the dinner accoutrements floating behind, two beers in hand, glasses floating along behind. “Ta. Here.” 

“Cheers,” Harry replied, taking what Draco handed him, and they both got on in peaceful silence with the unshrinking of the takeaway and dishing out from the multitudinous cartons. 

The meal accomplished, still mostly in companionable quiet--except for Draco briefly regaling Harry with Teddy’s latest adventures in model-building with squashy bright-coloured materials (Harry had been in some emergency meeting at the Ministry and not able to be home at the time)--they each sagged back into the cushiony comfort of the sofa Draco had insisted also brought over from his study in the Manor. 

It was a most excellent sofa, Charmed to match any décor and enlarge or shrink, firm or soften, all according to the circumstances and wishes of the people inhabiting it. Harry had fallen into its welcoming embrace the moment it was placed in the drawing room of their very nice flat and not made not a single solitary objection to any of the other furnishings Draco insisted were necessary for his comfort and well-being. 

“Ahh,” he sighed eventually, wriggling his sock clad toes on the cleared table and patting his very happily fully belly. “It’s so strange. I’ve had the real thing, you know? The actual dish, I meant. When I was abroad. But somehow I still missed our version. Why is that, you think?” 

“Because you’re a heathen at heart?" Draco grinned. "No, I don’t know, really, Harry, but I do know what you mean, sadly enough. Oof, but that does feel good,” Draco answered, wiggling his own toes in his Molly-made socks, propped right alongside Harry’s. “Hmm. Bit chill in here, though. The Muggle air cooler machine Theo insisted on having installed must take after you, Potty."

"What?" Harry asked, clearly confused by Draco's crypticism.

"Working extra hard,” Draco smirked. "And extra long. Silly head."

Reaching round a hand to the back of the marvellous settee, he tugged Harry’s terribly gauche but oddly warming Cannons souvenir-size rug down and arranged it around his legs where’d he stretched them out. Glancing over at his still vaguely frowning flatmate, he chuckled softly. “Hmm, sorry. Uncalled for, that. Want some warmth, you? It’s large enough for two, this terrible thing, I’ll say that for it. Ugly as a Banshee’s arse end and blinding to view but definitely large enough.”

“Mmmm’kay.” 

Harry nodded absently, eyes sleepy behind his spec frames. Tugging and tucking away fussily at the rug, Draco could hear the sounds of the leftovers packing themselves away in the coolbox, and a rush of water splashing merrily into the sink. Cutlery clinked about as it was put away and the lid of the rubbish bin thudded shut. It was all very soothing and domestic to his ears--and it was hugely different from the Manor. If he were still there, he’d have heard nothing of that; the Elves were far too well paid to let such sounds escape the kitchens. He’d likely have been subjected to the irksome piped-in sounds of childish lullabies instead, provided him courtesy the noisomely officious Nursery. 

“There, all set. Alright, there? I'll turn the talking box on again for us, shall I?” 

“Very, thanks,” Harry’s lips twitched faintly, "and yes, please."

Draco smiled in return as he fiddled the telly wand, enjoying the drowsy postprandial atmosphere. In a moment the fit Captain was again romping about the screen, exuding charm and sex appeal.

Speaking of? Right about this time, Draco mused, leaning up against his flatmate, close enough to share body warmth, he'd wager the Manor’s current inhabitants were likely romping about the place fucking starkers. And shagging in the most unusual locations. He could confirm this because the week before he’d rather thoughtlessly dropped by his home without notice to retrieve one of his smaller lunascopes and had surprised them _en delicto flagrante_ in the Smaller Spare Yellow Parlor. Never generally used by the family, that room, as evidenced by its appellation. 

“So, yes, meant to enquire before. Are Luna and Rolf are settling in alright at the Manor?” Harry asked idly, turning his head and opening his eyes to gaze curiously over at Draco. Draco blinked, startled, and stared back at his friend. It was as if the man could divine Draco’s thoughts! “Hear any good news yet on their Happy Families front from them?” 

“Mmm, no, not that I’m aware of. But it’s only been a few weeks, you know?” Draco replied easily enough after a moment, idly picking at the ghastly pattern on the Cannons rug with one hand and toying with the telly remote with the other. “Give it time. I do believe the Manor’s a bit ecstatic to have them housed there; likely pulling out all the stops. Certainly it seems to be easing up on me personally, and that’s all to the good in my book." He shuddered dramatically. "Spider-decked mobiles and dizzy ducklings are _not_ my scene at the moment. But they're definitely theirs. More power to them, poor sods.” 

“Luna likes spiders. And, I must say, it was a pretty brilliant idea, you letting your house out to them, specifically,” Harry cackled. “Sometimes it just takes a fine mind, with a keen eye to detail, to come up with that perfect match, that match made in Avalon, blessed by Merlin him--”

“Cut line, idiot,” Draco ordered frostily, glaring. “We all know you’re brilliant, and yes, it was likely the most sapient suggestion you’ve ever made in this lifetime, given that Luna’s my own distant cousin and she and Rolf are absolutely bonkers over having babies and they are thus the perfect--what was it Hermione called us; oh yes! ‘Vessels’, she said. Seriously, though. What better place to accomplish their goal than at a house hellbent on producing progeny in its unfortunate occupants?” he asked, somewhat rhetorically, shrugging and studiously ignoring his mate’s stupid smirking and hilarious awkward attempt to pat own back. “All thanks to you, of course. Do stop that, Harry. It's unseemly and you'll probably sprain something.” 

“What can I say?” Potter laughed, clearly unrepentant, though he did leave off contorting himself and settled comfortably back against the cushions. “Oh, that’s right--I can’t. I’m an Unspeakable.” 

“What? Is that your bloody motto? And, in its further favour,” Draco responded sternly, “it’s a much better idea than what you’ve gone and inflicted on poor old Grimmauld Place. Grimmauld is so far from the ideal of a honeymoon destination, Potter, it’s in a different galaxy. Perhaps Alpha Centauri. You really need to ask Hermione's help; find a better solution than renting it out nightly. Kreacher’s not looking at all well these days. Terribly haggard. For Kreacher, Harry, that’s saying rather a lot. He’s not spritely on a good day.” 

“Meh.” Harry shrugged off Draco’s remarks. “It’ll do for the moment, which is what’s important. Shagging is happening at Grimmauld, much to its delight, presumably. I can think up something better later. Oh, ah! Um? When is ‘later’, anyway?" Tilting his head like some demented canary, Harry blinked curiously at Draco. "How long, do you think, before we can move back to our respective homes? Hermione was saying she thought at least six months, maybe longer.” He sighed glumly, waving a hand. “P’raps even nine.” 

“A year,” Draco stated firmly, having thought it through thoroughly, well before his happy shaggers had even taken up residence. “Not less than, surely. That’s quite powerful Magic affecting mine, and it needs be appeased by some quite heavy-duty acts of fertility. If we're not there to do it, then it’s still got to be accomplished in some fashion, and regularly." 

Draco stiffened, an unwelcome thought striking him.

"Why? Why do you ask? Aren't you happy here? I thought you loved this place.” 

He looked carefully at his friend, an odd pang twinging in his chest when he was met with an inexplicable small silence on his mate's end. It was, he realized unhappily, more than a tad hurtful, the idea that Harry might not particularly relish sharing quarters again with his old uni roommate. But he'd certainly never, ever indicated anything of the sort...had he?

“...Potter?" Draco prodded. "You do, don’t you?” 

“Oh! No, no, it’s nothing like that,” Harry said quickly, having surfaced from whatever reverie he'd fallen into, staring off into the middle distance like he'd been. “I do really like this flat, honestly. It’s...well, it’s hard to put it into words?” 

Draco scowled. Yes, he supposed Harry was sufficiently quick to deny Draco's stupid suspicions. But mayhap not quite fast enough to roust out all the seeds of darkling doubt that had sown themselves in Draco’s questioning mind. Though, on the other hand, Harry never, ever lied to Draco. 

“Okay, so what’s wrong with it, then? Our flat.” 

"It's not our flat." Harry pursed his lips, twisting a lock of dark hair into an unruly corkscrew and staring at it cross-eyed. “It’s only that...well, I suppose I miss it, just a little. Grimmauld. Like you probably miss living at the Manor, I imagine. You do, right?” 

“Mmmm…yes, perhaps I do. A little.” Draco glanced off, diverted, gaze not really taking in the vague movements of the muted Muggle actors on the widescreen glass panel. “It’s nice enough there--nowadays, at least. But I’m also at Malfoy often enough so as to not feel homesick a'tall and I--I really like being here, with you.”

“Yeah?” Harry left his hair go and turned his head to regard Draco. 

“Hmm. It's better. I’ve been on my own too much, I think,” Draco explained. “At least in these last couple of years. I mean, you were gone abroad nearly as soon as you joined the Ministry, and Theo and I parted ways fairly shortly after that. It’s sincerely a pleasure, I think, living with a friend again, sharing space with a mate. Especially someone I already know as well as I know you. Comfortable, I guess I’d say it is, in ways the Manor just isn’t.”

“Oh!” Harry beamed at Draco, eyes alight. “I guess that’s it, exactly! I suppose I’ve missed that too, that feeling. You know what?” 

“What?”

“Well, when I first returned and was given the Department to run, I was rarely at Grimmauld, right?” 

Draco’s face darkened. “Yes, and what’s so different about that? It’s basically the same story here, Potter.” 

“I’m sorry, I really am, and I will try to do better, I swear, but what I was trying to tell you is that, what with being away from so long, and then being back in familiar spaces again, like Grimmauld, it felt nice. Like having a home, of sorts. And you know, even if it’s only been Kreacher with me at Grimmauld, he’s still a living, breathing, talking being, right? It sort of felt like having a roomie, at least for a little, but you’re totally dead on. This is much better. Waaay better!” 

“Yeah,” Draco sighed, the little twinge of anxiety fitfully subsiding. “Okay, I sort of see your point. Though I can’t see how you’d ever think Kreacher was a better roommate than me.” 

He absently patted the flat of his palm against his full belly, enjoying the motion and the warmth of Harry next to him. Harry, who’d snuck his legs under the hideous rug when Draco wasn't noticing. 

“It’s good, this. Being here. I mean, I was already pretty content with my lot; have been, but this is the improvement I guess I wasn’t aware I needed. Don’t mind it, really, if it’s a year--or longer, even. You?” 

“Nah, me neither,” Harry said promptly, reaching a hand out to lay over Draco’s. “I’d been missing so much, being abroad. Living in this flat with you is helping me to pay attention when I should, to you and to me. I suppose I really needed it, learning how to make time for me again. Being aware of someone else on a day-to-day basis, too. It’s been far too long since I did either of those things. I’m out of practice. Luna and I, we work very well together, she’s a dear friend and a fabulous Mage, but...it’s not the same. It never was.” 

“Tell me about it, Potter,” Draco laughed ruefully. “Been saying that for years now.”

“Well, you were right.” Harry grimaced, frowning at the files shoved to the edge of the coffee table. “It’s a bit consuming, being an Unspeakable. I love it, I do. But, Malfoy? I’d not have left, you know, if you hadn’t been happy with your life. Did you know? I thought about it a lot, when I was offered the Journeymenship. That I didn't want to leave you if you weren’t going to be okay with it. Happy with Theo, too, I suppose. I’m sorry that didn’t work out for you, you know.” 

“I know, Potter,” Draco said softly, turning his hand about so that their fingers could intertwine. “It’s alright, really.” 

“...Good.” 

Draco closed his eyes, shutting out the flickering images on the telly. It was peaceful. The rug was warm over their legs and the murmur of the telly was soothing. He had his best friend in the world sitting next to him and they’d even managed to have a meal together. Their flat, for all that it had taken the combined powers of Hermione, Pansy, Theo--who was big in Wizarding real estate now--and even Minister Shacklebolt, who’d pulled a few strings for them in the paperwork department--their flat was both spacious and cosy, Wizarding and Modified Muggle, located perfectly, and it felt like a real home to him. More so even than Draco’s beloved Manor did at the moment, despite all its freaky antics. Perhaps especially because of those magical antics!

“I know you did, and I appreciate it,” Draco offered up after a long quiet moment. “Appreciated it then too, even if I never said it.” He shook his head, not caring particularly that his hair flopped into his eyes, tangling in his eyelashes. He blinked it out, shaking his head slightly. “‘M’not so good with asking for help, Potter, but at least with you, I don't have to. You're always there for me, even when I’m not sure where you actually are, you know? And I--I’m there for you too; goes without even saying.” 

“You.” Harry hummed happily and leant closer, pressing a quick kiss against the pale peach fuzz just starting to sprout on Draco’s lean cheek. “You’re a complete sap, just saying,” he informed Draco’s instant blush. “Feeling’s mutual, of course.” 

“Huh. You don’t say?” Draco scoffed, grinning. “Pot, kettle, Potter. Don’t forget I’ve seen you with Teddy, all this time. Not to mention the Weasley horde. And even Pansy’s terrors--you adore them, all of them.”

“Bosh,” Harry shot back, looking terribly stern. “I adore Crup puppies and Kneazle kittens and even those animated toothpicks you like to call foals, Malfoy. Baby bloody bees! I am a known pushover for small cute animals of any sort, and Rosie will vouch for that, but that doesn't mean I can’t be a real mean bastard sometimes.” 

“Yes, dear,” Draco laughed. “Unspeakables are known for their utter meanness and ruthless behaviour. Especially the Runes sort. It’s all due to their constant study of stone scratchings and mineral lumps--really toughens a person up, being ‘round all those rocks. Quite inflexible, your sort.” 

“Oi, it’s not just that!” Potter protested, giving Draco’s hand a squeeze. “Sometimes we do have to confront Dark Magic, you know. This isn't all about making rubbings and speculating over ancient spelling errors. Sometimes there’s actual danger.” 

“Hah, Potter!” Draco burst out laughing. “You wish. Danger is _not_ your Kneazle Nip, you lying git. We both knew back at Flamel that you choose the Runes Mastery specifically because it _wouldn’t_ involve you actively killing anyone. No chasing after villains, no hunting down anything more terrible than the odd academic reference or primary source. Oh, no! It's all about travelling around and sightseeing the living Merlin out of old fucking rocks and pottery shards in very obscure places, Potter, and maybe now and again telling the Aurors they should be on the look out for assorted oddballs fascinated with a certain sort of squiggle in found in cuneiform or hieroglyphics.” 

“Fuck! That’s not necessarily true, Malfoy,” Potter shot back, gripping Draco’s hand a little harder. “Why, just a few months ago, the Unspeakables were heavily involved in that Auror drive to contain those--oh, fuck! I can't tell you that. Why?” 

He finally snatched his hand back, only to throw his arms up in the air in exasperation, nearly clipping Draco across the side of the head in passing. 

“What? Watch it, will you?”

“Just,” Harry sighed. “Why does this always happen with you? You know I can’t say anything about my job and still you egg me on unmercifully!” 

“No, really. Watch yourself, Potter!” Draco snapped, lurching away. “And the fuck I do. You’re the one who wants to talk about your work and you’re the one who bloody well can’t. Well, make yourself accustomed to that fact of life right smart, will you? All closed up like a bloody fucking clamshell and by your own choice, Potter. Maybe even have a little think about whether that’s why you’ve not had a single meaningful relationship since you started at DoM!” 

“What? Wh-What??!! The fuck, Draco!” Harry shouted, leaping to his feet as if he’d been Jinxed. “Where do you even get off, saying that? You--you fucking poser! It’s not like you’ve got anything to show for yourself either, you know? Don't you dare accuse me of what you can't even manage to do yourself, git-for-brains!” 

“That’s it!” Draco announced, jumping up. “That. Is. It,” he repeated, his voice absolutely deadly, a poison so rich as to drown out Potter’s puling noises completely. “That’s enough. We’re both knackered and you--you clearly have some issues to sort. Maybe I do too, alright? ‘M not fucking perfect and don’t I know it, okay. But I am going to my room now, and I am going to have a decent sleep and I strongly suggest you do the exact same. So. Good fucking night.” He spun on his socked heel, gritting his teeth, and started walking. “Hope you feel better in the morning, truly I do.”

“You fucker!” Potter howled from behind him. “How dare? Are you actually walking away from this? From me? You started it, damn you! And you’re walking away, just like that?” 

“Oh yes,” Draco replied grimly, doing just that. 

Albeit by dodging the coffee table and Harry’s haphazardly discarded rucksack. He glared at the spilt scrolls and files in passing. Halted a few steps before the doorway and turned back to face his flatmate. 

“I’m going to bed and hopefully also to sleep. And if you really want to talk this through, Harry, well tomorrow’s the start of the weekend, and you technically have the free time available. I’ll be right here, in our flat. That we share. Together. So! Like I said, good night.” He bared his teeth, scowling sufficient to cow any number of Wizards lesser than bloody Potter. Potter, however, merely scowled right back at Draco. “Fine. I won't wish you good dreams then,” Draco felt compelled to add snippily. “I hope they’re all horrid, actually. Bloody oblivious wanker!” 

“You putrid troll!”

“Same again, right back at you!” 

Sniffing, Draco stalked out, fuming hotly and making sure he slammed shut behind him not only the living room door behind him but also his bedroom door for good measure. Really, he couldn’t make the message loud enough for that utter dolt Potter.

But underneath the bubble of rage was the cold swell of a long-fought resentment. Draco didn't even know quite how to define it, that sick, low sensation; he just knew it was there, lingering, and that it got in the way sometimes. 

Like this evening. When they’d been sharing some really brilliant time together. Draco had been under the impression things had been going really very well. Matey, like the old days. 

Until they simply _weren’t_. 

He flung himself out of his clothes, not caring that he left them all over the floor. Shoved on his pajamas with little care and dove beneath the duvet as quickly as he could, spelling the sconces out as he went. 

If he was going to blubber--and that unholy prickle at the back of his eyes and the stifling feeling in his throat surely besaged it--he’d much rather do it alone, by himself. 

In the dark. Under the covers. Alone, as he evidently really, truly was. 


	13. The Lion-Man Mission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you are interested, this is a good starting place:  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Twyfelfontein

Harry tilted his head back and looked up at the night sky. Utterly brilliant, sparkling like a cloth solidly woven of diamonds, the occasional red or blue tinged one leaping out to the naked eye. Nothing like what he’d be able to view in, say, London. The sky above went on forever, dizzying and rendering him more than a little breathless. 

He thinks instantly of Draco as he gazes up and up. Draco, who would be ecstatic to be here, where Harry was, standing beneath it and marvelling. No doubt that intriguing mouth would be chattering away of this and of that arcane astronomical aspect, those hands moving swift as swallows in flight, darting to point out this or that constellation. Or p’raps he’d be dead silent instead, biting at his full lower lip contemplatively, pointy chin cocked at an elegant angle and neck craned, taking it all in with a deep and grave attention. 

But where Harry is currently is where Draco cannot also be, sadly. 

Namibia, the west coast of the African continent, close by Twyfelfontein, and he and the more than fifty other Mages are stood about in a loose circle, all under their various DisIllusionment charms. Harry and Luna, Millicent and Meneer De Oude stand in a huddling line, clad still in their various elegant dinner attire, having been pulled away by Chaz’s urgent summons mid-meal, and Harry shivers in the chill. Too, there’s an annoying bloody sandstone pebble already that’s somehow worked into Harry’s one dress shoe, chafing him. Bollocks!

It’s simultaneously a bother and an honour, this, being Summoned by a Mage in need, but it happens now and again and there’s no question of not-responding. One goes where one is needed, at least with Runes. 

Still. Harry wishes he’d done as Mills had and poured his glass of exceptionally nice red wine down his gullet before he’d yanked on his cloak and grabbed hold of a section of the old wellie Chaz was using as a Portkey. But he hadn’t and is thus rather wistfully entirely sober, with little to do but wait for the signal from the local Mage and stare up at the stars in wonderment. 

The ancient Damaraland holds multiple treasures within its bounds, not the least of which are the ones created and left behind by the long-ago Wilton Stone Age societies and then--thousands of years later--the Khoikhoi peoples. The Muggles and their associated magic-users carved and painted their sacred and secular places: giraffes and human figures, handprints and spirals, zebra, the Dancing Kudu and the Lion Man. Magic--Rune Magic--is practically a living presence, even to a Muggle’s perception. For Harry and his fellow Mages the artwork and the abstract symbols that inhabit the area scream and shriek and sigh and sing, and the rocky land hums with ancient power. 

It is in need of Conserving, of course.

Harry stands and waits patiently, his shoulder leaned companionably against Millie’s, Luna a warm aura to his other side, well aware that soon enough they will be dancing, all of them. His slippery soled fancy shoes will slide left and then right, then left again, and left and left, leg in, leg out, wand held up straight at waist level in both hands fast-knuckled, and they’ll gain momentum, the lot of them, echoing in dance the engraven spirals, the racketty bob of the Kudu, the otherworldly arc of brilliant spinning diamond lights in the sky. 

The concentrated magic, the essence, it will build and build, deepen and root, till the carven rocks are penetrated beneath their desert patina and the grooves and smears and etchings shimmer. 

Harry inhales sharply; there’s a shooting star streaking the sky momentarily and he can almost believe he hears the acid sizzle. Draco would be delighted, he’s certain. 

And, when the moment is right and proper the local Mage will call upon them, Apparating themselves to the centre of the loose, snaking circle of dancers, becoming the focal point of a profoundly old, incredibly powerful spell that always somehow reminds Harry of the Morris. At least a little, in physical motion. They will cast, that local Mage, and the chameleon shapes of Luna, of Meneer De Oude, of Master Stencil from HQ, of Chaz, of Luce and forty-odd others all shuffling and stomping, bowing and twisting and spinning about will collectively focus upon pouring every resource into the Hands-That-Are-Gentle Charm. 

_Hands-That-Are-Gentle_ , yes, for that is how this especial Conservation spell is known, in this time, at this place. There is no one better to cast it than the Mage who dwells here, and that is known and a given. Thus, Disillusionment and middle-of-the-night urgency. They're here but they're not, really. 'Air support', Chaz likes to call it, joking about. 

Then they’ll go away, just as quietly all of them, back to whence they came--HQ, Spain, the Alps, the Baltic, Down Under and all sundry parts of the globe--and Harry? 

Harry, when he and the rest of his group are returned to their rudely interrupted meal at De Oude’s house in the The Hague, is bound and determined to dig the blasted pebble out of his shoe and make a rune of it. His own, and it will be charmed to be a lion. A lion man, wand raised high. With a snake picked out of star-marks, perhaps, a glittering spiral encircling Harry’s lion rampant.


	14. Shutting-It Snogs and Apology Hugs

“Wha!? What the everliving fu--Potter?!” 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I'm sorry, I was a right twat, Draco,” Harry was sobbing as he clambered onto Draco’s bed, dragging aside the duvet and rapidly wrapping himself around a startled Draco like a smaller, frenzied relative of the Giant Squid. “I didn't mean it, not a word I said, I’m just--and it’s so--and I can never say anything that matters,” he wailed, gulping and blinking, specs all askew, glinting crazily in the all too suddenly bright lamp light. “And you hate me, you must hate me, ‘cause I can never ever do it right; I dunno even know what it _is_ , I just c-c-can’t m-m-manage--”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Harry!” Wincing, Draco gasped roughly--his mate's grip on his ribcage was really terribly tight--and did the only thing he could think of to shut poor Harry up. He opened his mouth, angled his head and stuck his face upon Harry’s wet one. “Gnnnghh!” 

“Mmhhph?!”

Harry did, in fact, shut it. Cease with the mad gabble. Well, mostly. It was more a muffling than a snogging, what they ended up with. There were teeth, Harry struggled, and Draco tasted blood as well as snot and salt and saliva.

“Mpph, mmmmphngghfack!” 

They both drew back, gasping, gurgling, throats working as they swallowed and gulped. Harry’s mouth shaped into a startled ‘O!’ and Draco’s teeth came snapping together so fast he feared for their cracking. 

“Wha-wha-wha-wha?” 

“Bloody hells, Harry!” 

“Wha-wha-wha-!”

Harry cycled through that syllable a few too many times for anyone’s liking all the while doing a very weird thing with his body, by shoving hastily at Draco’s chest whilst tangling his bare legs completely about Draco’s pajama-clad ones. For a split-second Draco could only mightily boggle. 

“R-Right, stop it.” Draco got his head together and ordered Harry, as staunchly as he could manage whilst awkwardly wrestling with the gawping, sniffling idiot intent on simultaneously clinging leech-like and also scrambling frantically to get as far away as possible. It was bloody confusing as fuck and he was flat out of patience. “That’s bloody enough of that, alright?” Merlin, he’d dearly love to snog Harry again but not like this--never like this. He grasped Harry's biceps and gave him a shake instead, scowling. “ _Fine_. Apology accepted. Now, may I please offer you a handkerchief? _Please_?”

He Summoned one. It floated about their heads, a neatly pressed and monogrammed offering to good manners. Harry simply stared blankly at it, red-eyed and silent, stone still as if Draco had Petrificus'd him instead of only shouting a little and providing the git a chance to blow his snotty nose. 

"Oh, come _on_ , Harry," Draco urged, his nerves jangling. "Take it, will you?" 

“You!” Harry broke free of his momentary stasis, first batting furiously at the inoffensive handkerchief and then all at once whacking Draco on the sternum, open-handed but so forcefully he nearly shattered a mother-of-pearl button on Draco's pajamas. “Stoopid! Bloody! Git!” 

“Ouch!” Draco yelped, retreating in his turn as much as he possibly could from the mad person. Not as far as he'd have liked; Harry’s ankles had his one foot in a stranglehold. The bed was also only so wide and the duvet had managed to tangle. "Shite!" He tossed his unwanted handkerchief away and glared daggers instead, increasingly irate. Harry had always had nightmares before but this was beyond ridiculous. “Bloody Merlin, Potter, will you please not? That was uncalled for, striking me!” 

“Uncalled for?” Harry shrieked, eyes wild and rolling far back in his head. He sneered, or rather, manfully attempted to, managing only to look even more absurd in his sodden state. “How dare you say that? You, of all people? You haven’t bloody kissed me in bloody years, Malfoy; why in blessed, blasted fuck would you do it _now_? I came in to say I was sorry, damn you. Not have a fucking snog!” 

“Cretin,” Draco replied with scant patience. “ _Not_ a fucking snog. More like a defensive measure."

"What?"

"Yes. First off, you were hysterical, pretty much, and you were crying. You despise crying, idjit. I had to make it stop. What did you want me to do? Silencio? Stifle you with my hand? I rather think not! I’m not some fucking abuser. Shock value, however, is proven to be helpful--”

“Bloody load of bloody bosh, Malfoy,” Harry snorted, belatedly recalling his nose was running and there was tear stains all over his frowning face. He helped himself to a corner of Draco’s sheet, blithely ignoring the redoubled glare he earned for it. “Fine.” He took a deep breath, closing his eyes, and then opened them. Startling Draco, as always, by sheer complex green of them. “Point,” he allowed. “What was your ‘second’, by the way? Or were you just making up a list in hopes of impressing me?” 

“Second,” Draco groaned, despairing, pressing his hand across his eyes and shutting them tightly, so as not to in any way be forced to look at the git he was talking to. Correction: attempting to address rationally. “Is, it’s bloody two o’clock in the morning. You woke me out of a sound sleep. Wailing and flailing, completely incoherent. Third, I was never truly angry with you and I’m fucking insulted you think I was--”

“Oh, pfft. Piss off, will you?” Harry snorted, reaching out to drag Draco’s hand away and peering at him. Draco snatched it back, flipping it at the sconces to lower them to a more reasonable level. “That’s a load of hippogriff shite. Trust me, I think you’ve made it crystal you’re still ticked off.” 

“I’m not,” snapped Draco instantly, “but--”

He paused, telling himself it was for proper conversational emphasis, but really, it was more he needed to take stock. It wasn’t only Harry who was more than a little miserable and irate. 

“But what?” Harry demanded grumpily after a moment. “Malfoy?” 

It was dimmer in Draco’s room but the hallway sconces allowed in an ambient low-level light through the door Harry had left wide open and his eyes had mostly adjusted. Harry had straightened out his silly spectacles, spelling them unsmudged. They could see each other well enough, Draco supposed--not that he particularly wanted to see his flatmate under these trying circumstances. He’d managed to lull himself to sleep without giving in to the indignity of sniveling over their little row and, while it was flattering that the git felt bad about being one, it still wasn’t particular pleasant, being dragged out of lovely REM, sobbed at, strangled, struck and then scolded. 

"Draco?" Harry prompted again, sounding much calmer. "You were saying?" 

“You,” he scowled, narrowing his eyes to gimlet slits and mentally trying to fry Harry’s stupidly long eyelashes off, “really are a massive pain in my bum, Potter. Believe me when I tell you that I am exercising every polite muscle in my body to restrain myself from kicking you out of my bed. I am not so much ‘ticked off’ as ‘mortally offended’. There's a difference, you know.” 

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry, alright?” Harry replied in a low mutter, instantly glancing off elsewhere. “Look, I just...I couldn't sleep," he informed Draco's reading lamp with a fretful scowl. "Thinking of how we rowed, literally over nothing, not a bleeding thing, and it felt hateful. Gut in knots, head aching, all that. I didn’t want you to wake up tomorrow morning and believe I was still vexed with you--or think you should be with me, either. It upset me, and the more I fretted over it, the more it did. That’s all.” He gave his head a little shake, his mop of hair shimmering blue-black in the golden light, and glanced back at Draco from beneath his ridiculous eyelashes. “Um. _Are_ you still? Because I’m not, obviously. Not really. Overtired, more like. You're perfectly right; I don't care to blub. Much.” 

“No,” Draco admitted, heaving a sigh and slumping down off his elbows. "I know you don't." He let his head sink back into his favourite pillow and stared up at the canopy, ignoring his mate's still clingy ankles, still snugged up against his own. It was...distracting. “I suppose I'm not, either. Not really. Well…” Draco shook his head, fretful. “Maybe a little, but maybe that’s me being miffed with me.” 

“Really?” Harry blinked at him. "You're cross with yourself?"

“Yes.” Draco turned his head, meeting Harry’s direct gaze. "Was a bit of a bastard, before." Draco hoped his own expression was just as open and sincere. Sometimes, even now, he felt he seemed a little colder than he really was--but Harry knew that. Or should do. Two bloody years didn't alter one's personality all that much and Harry had known for ages Draco was quite passionate about many things. “I shouldn't have said all that rot about your job. That was not well done of me and I am sorry, Harry. I know you really enjoy it, your profession, and I wouldn't change that for the world, not a jot, not a speck. You deserve to be happy, truly. I know _I_ want you to be happy, mate. Each to his own and all that.” 

“Is it--is it that I can’t really talk about it? My work.” Harry tilted his chin, curiosity evident. “I can't, of course. It’s awkward as fuck, you know? Other chaps can natter on and on about what they do all day but I'm not able to. Literally can not.”

"Yes," Draco nodded, sighing. "We all know that--"

"No." Harry closed his eyes, relieving Draco of a little of his innate intensity. “Listen. I was thinking about what you said, earlier, and I think you’re in the right of it. It's not only me, with you. I think it is interfering with me finding someone to be with, my work. I’m only still...I’m only still me, though. You know? There’s not a lot special about me, other than I suppose the Voldemort years, but they're well past, thank Merlin, and I can't even share the fun parts of what I do for a living with my friends, much less anyone I care to chat up. Makes it a very ineffective, the chatting up part. Telling some fit bloke or bint you’ll have to kill them if you make a stupid slip about how you earn your Galleons puts a bloody damper on the whole process. And I don't know that I care much for just shagging, alright? I like to know a person.” 

“Oh, Potter,” Draco sighed again, rolling over. “Look, if it’s just simple pulling it doesn't matter, does it? And that’s a start for you, at least. You might find someone you can talk Quidditch with, or travel, or something innocuous like that. You mustn’t just bury yourself away, though. Not like you’ve been. It rankles me no end when you do that. Such a waste.” 

“Or you,” Harry shot back, opening his eyes again, his slightly reddened lips twitching into the slightest of grins. “Playing at being a monk, you are. You’re keeping yourself to yourself again, Malfoy, and that’s not so good either. Hermione’s been mentioning she’s concerned for you and Ron too. You’ve not dated anyone seriously since Theo Nott, not according to what they've told me, and how long ago was that, right? A year? Two years? More, even?” 

“Suppose so, yes. Time flies, doesn’t it. When we're not having fun.” Draco snorted, chuckling softly; it was hilarious, the utter irony of it--of them. Given why they were flatting together at all. “Truly pot, kettle, aren't we, Potty? Both of us fretting over each other, and for the same reason. No wonder the Manor went round the bend, wanting me to procreate. I would too, if faced with a sorry case such as me, nearly reverted to virginity. Not much hope for siring a gaggle of children, is there?” 

“And Grimmauld Place!” Ruefully, Harry joined him in the laugh. “It’s silly to be so shocked, I guess, but I’d never even seen that part of the house before now; never knew it existed. Imagine my surprise, when all this time I’ve had to bed poor Ted down in Sirius’s old room. Well, before I had to leave, I mean. When he was a little baby. Never even had a single clue there was a nursery in Grimmauld.” 

“Nor that your bloody house had such a burning hot penchant for red velvet swagging and jellied eels, I'd imagine," Draco teased. "Ah, the things we learn, yes?” 

“Yeah.” Somehow, and mayhap due to Harry’s toes tickling away at Draco’s arches, they’d wriggled their way nearer each other in Draco’s bed, such that it wasn't much effort for Draco to reach out and tousle Harry’s hair. Harry flailed and grabbed at his hand, grinning. “Oi! Get off, you. Look, I’m really just sorry we had to hurt each other, learning it.” Seemed it wasn’t any effort at all for Harry to use that captured hand to haul Draco in for a warm, hearty hug. Draco went with it, bemused. “C’mere, do," Harry urged him. "Come on." 

“You silly arse, what are you doing?” Draco asked, blinking strands of softly wafting black strands out of his lashes. "Ridiculous Potty." 

“Giving you a bloody hug, what do you think?” Harry replied happily, stifling a small yawn and withdrawing just enough for Draco to be free of his wild hair. “It’s an apology. Luna does them and it's nice. Hmm, you’re warm as anything, you know? Ta for that.” Squirming, he pushed himself closer, snugging up to Draco’s torso, his arms naturally loosening as he relaxed. Another sudden yawn overtook him, which then inevitably prompted Draco to wish to yawn as well. “Merlin, but I’m knackered. Too”--he yawned again, the bugger--"tired to budge. May I sleep here, M’foy?”

Draco, caught with his mouth partly open and halfway into the yawn he couldn't quite control, unfortunately gulped in surprise, nonplussed, and ended up falling into a little coughing fit.

"Urgh! Hah!"

"Ta, mate." Not waiting for a definitive 'yes', Harry slipped off his glasses and cast them floating towards the general direction of the night stand. He gave Draco a friendly little pat on the back, brow creased in concern. "Alright there?"

"Surely. No fear,” Draco croaked, when he'd managed to catch his breath. Only a tad ironically, too. "Er, ah. Help yourself, I s'pose."

Harry smiled. "You're the best." 

Giving it up as a bad job and far too fatigued to really even care, Draco settled, eyelids drifting down, heavier and heavier with every breath. In the hall the sconces burned low of their own accord and Harry had managed to fiddle the duvet about so it lay approximately in the right fashion. It was peaceful at last and Harry was toasty-warm, laying next to him, still latched on to Draco with lax hands and knobby ankles. Oddly easy to accustom himself to, Draco reflected sleepily, those tickling toes aside. Especially at nearly three o'clock in the morning. 

"S’alright w’me," he allowed, letting the dregs of the night's tension slip away. "Wha’ever. Just...you know. Sleep, now. No more talking.” 

“Mmm, kay," Harry mumbled. "‘Night.” 

“G'night."


	15. Wise Advice

"Oh, I don't know, Hars." Millie tilted her head at her handful of things wrapped in thin pancake and smiled. "It might be serious this time. You never know. Not with Lovegood." 

"Well..." Harry sighed. "It has been some time. Quite a while, now I think about it." 

"She goes her own way, but she does tend to arrive," Millie stated and took a bite, albeit gingerly. Because it was Millicent Bulstrode, the pancake did not leak. Harry grinned, toasting her with his own before he crammed a goodly section into his mouth. 


	16. Gebo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elder Futhark Runes  
> "Gebo:  
> Pronunciation – gay-boh  
> Meanings – Unity, kindness or gifts – indicating balance and harmony through generosity, forgiveness or self-sacrifice.  
> Interpretations – can indicate or symbolize a connection between two people – the giver and the recipient. Depending on context and circumstances Gebo can mean that you are about to receive a gift physically or emotionally. It can also mean that you should contemplate your own contributions and self-sacrifice. Are you holding back or giving too freely to those who may be taking advantage? With Gebo it’s important to always be mindful of balance in relationships whether it’s romantic, friendship or business.  
> If reversed – cannot be reversed  
> Inscriptions – Love (physically or emotionally) and all types of relationships..."  
> https://www.thepeculiarbrunette.com/rune-symbols-meanings-and-uses/

Draco was not at all surprised to find Harry not in his bed in the morning. Nor in the flat, either, although there was a half pot of tea left under a stasis charm and the _Prophet_ had clearly been paged through. Not that he minded the lack, because of course he didn’t. He was quite accustomed, really. They'd quietly fallen asleep the previous night, backs to each other, and that had been the end of that row. No more to be said about it. 

Drinking down his second cup, he contemplated popping down to the Manor, but changed his mind mid-consideration. While his family home might have a new target--the quite randy and excessively determined-to-get-themselves-knocked-up young Scamander couple, who were all too likely shagging themselves blind in the Drawing Room even as he mulled over the idea of nipping by--it was yet pursuing a quite subtle but secondary campaign to convince its Master that offspring of his very own blood-and-biology were an absolute necessity. Subtle, as in not quite so horrendously blunt-edge as before but still ghastly insidious and unrelenting. Of course he knew his own home and of course his own home was every bit as Slytherin as any one of its current and previous owners, really. But Draco was just a tiny bit concerned that maybe he was being somewhat swayed. Just a wee bit. A smidge. 

Not that _he_ was in any position to do a damn thing about it, the offspring idea. It had been close to two years since he’d had any manner of a serious relationship and none of the various Wizards he’d pulled since interested him in the slightest, not beyond a quick fuck. He had standards, didn’t he? Surely the Manor could understand standards, steeped as it was in centuries of assumed privilege? He hoped so but he wasn't sanguine, no matter what he'd said to Harry. 

He sighed glumly, assessing the state of teapot. One last lukewarm cuppa and he’d go somewhere. Maybe not the Manor but somewhere. Else. There was very lovely flower market located off of Dilly’d Alley and-- 

“Oh, hey, brilliant! You’re still here!” 

Draco’s small self-admission of weakness and his resultant low mood were abruptly diverted by the loud cheery rush of the main floo. 

“I was hoping you didn’t have plans," Potter exclaimed, breezing through the open archway leading from their entry foyer to the flat’s much larger kitchen/pantry area. He shed his Ministry robes over the back of a chair as he went, bypassing the closet meant expressly for purpose of storing such garb with nary a glance, and grinned merrily at Draco in his passing, giving him a mately slap on the shoulder. "Slept well, I hope?" 

Draco regarded him dourly, nodded his grudging 'hullo' and continued to steadfastly sip his tea. 

“I took your advice, you know,” his inexplicable flatmate carried on, apparently oblivious to such things as 'atmosphere', bustling about like a small dark dervish.

He slung a butter-stained paper bakery sack on the countertop, slammed open the coolbox to fling a carton of table cream into it, slammed it shut again and then finally spun 'round to lean his back up against the countertop and face Draco full on.

“Wasn’t there long, though," he informed Draco's grudgingly enquiring eyebrows. "Just popped in and let Millie know I wasn't available this entire weekend. For a change, what?” He chuckled jovially, causing Draco to gently set his back teeth in an effort to maintain passivity. "So, long story short, here I am, mate"--the oblivious one gestured cheerily, grinning--"free as a bird, right? So. We should take advantage, yeah? Go somewhere, do something. Fun. Have some of that." 

“' _Fun,_ ' you say? And you’re what now? You’re not working? You told Millicent that?”

Startled, Draco opened his eyes wide and nearly choked on his swallow, shocked to the core by this unexpected revelation. In the month they’d shared the flat, not once had Potter _not_ gone into the office for the best part of the weekend.

“Erm, pardon; to what advice do you refer? Tell me.”

“From last night, remember?” Harry replied airily. “You know, for _me;_ taking back some of my life, not letting my job consume all of my time. Hermione and Ron have been saying the same, you know. Even Mills.” He wandered over to their breakfast table where Draco was seated to examine the teapot, only to frown at it when he discovered it mostly empty. “Hmm. Oh, shall I put on the kettle? Or would you rather go out instead? There’s that Muggle café just by the park; been meaning to give it a try.” He looked up, meeting Draco’s narrow-eyed stare and radiating an air of camaraderie. “Um. Join me?” 

“Wait. No. A moment, if you please.”

Draco managed to re-hinge his still-hanging jaw, sufficient to be enable articulation. He blinked, perhaps a bit more rapidly than was normal, and slipped his unoccupied hand down under the table to give himself a good solid pinch on the thigh, straightening up and settling himself into a more business-like posture.

“Ow! Alright, I am actually awake; that does smart. Fine, then. Potter, did I just hear you say _you_ took _my_ advice?.” 

“Erm." Harry raised his eyebrows so far up they practically disappeared beneath his flopping-forward, entirely too perverse fringe, the silvery lightning-bolt wrinkling in clear confusion. "Yes? I did--I am?” 

"Oh, no! Bosh. Excuse me, Dream Harry; a moment whilst I--just--make--certain. Once more." 

Draco made a fuss of yanking up his dressing gown sleeve and pinching himself a second time. The thin skin of his wrist--the unMarked arm, naturally--and in plain view. Wincing, he noted Potter's immediate sympathetic grimace with a certain degree of bitter satisfaction. 

“Pfft! Huh, you're still here, then," he remarked sharply, whipping his sleeve back down his abused arm and casually taking up his mug again. "Not a dream." He wafted it at Potter, lips curling upward in a cynical smile. "I do actually see you standing here before me, in our flat, on a Saturday morning, in the flesh, proposing brunch at a café, although that’s bloody unheard of. Potter, are you feeling quite the thing?” 

“Idiot!” Harry snorted softly, sticking the pot lid back on with a hasty clatter. “Taking the piss. I am perfectly well, ta. I do have a real life, you know." He shrugged ruefully when Draco squinted disbelievingly at him. "Or sometimes I do. Today’s one of those days, I guess.” He beckoned, indicating a higher degree of hurry. “Well, come on then, will you? If you're coming, that is. It's half past eleven already. We should make a start before the morning's gone. Shift arse and get your kit on; I'll wait.” 

“Ahah! I see how it is now."

Draco tilted his chin impudently, rudely rocked his chair back on its hindlegs and made no move to leap into mollifying action.

"You, you're not the usual Harry James Potter with whom I am familiar, not at all, even though you appear to be. No, you've obviously been tampered with in some fashion; a Spell Damage victim. Millicent has doubtless placed some sort of vengeful curse upon you as a result of you saying you were faffing off entirely, and now you’ve being impelled to act just as a normal person does on a normal weekend. Wanting a meal out in public and shopping, all that. How diabolical of her. A fate worse than death for an important Ministry official such as yourself. You should likely go have yourself nice lie-down instead. Just till it wears off, of course. And I'll stand guard, of course." 

"Incorrigible!" Harry snorted, leaning across to give Draco a light biff on the top of his uncombed head. "Do stop. I'm fine, I tell you. I just want to go out, alright? See some sights, perhaps take a stroll 'round that flower market you've mentioned. Might you not fuss at me and instead just come along with? I really am starved. And thirsty." He cast a mournful sideways glance at the teapot. "You drank all the tea, Draco." 

"Fine."

Draco relented, resettling the legs of his chair on the lino with care, but only so he could loudly scrape it back and away from the table. He plopped down his mug with a thumping flourish as he went, rising regally to his slippered feet and enjoying his slight advantage of height over Potter. It enabled him to appear all that more smugly synpathetic.

"If you insist of course I shall," he replied. "Obviously the only remedy for Bulstrode's curse is for me to humour you whilst we wait for the curse to wear off on its own, your ArchMageness,” Draco flipped a mocking half-salute; Harry only smiled back at him like the utter loon he was. “Your every wish is my command. Who am I, but a mere plebe, a civilian, to argue with our ensorcelled Saviour?” He turned to the door. “Do excuse me. I must scour my wardrobe for garments suitable to accompanying the great Harry Potter into public view. I'm certain the Press will be present for such an amazing excursion.” 

“Idiot! You’ll take the whole hour, I just know it!” Harry called after him, but he was definitely laughing. “Just go Muggle, will you? It’s easier by far.” 

Draco could still hear Harry’s chuckling echoing in his ears as he rushed through a very rapid version of his usual morning routine. Truly, it wasn’t much more than fifteen minutes before he entered the drawing room in search of Harry.

Who was to be found quietly ensconced on the sofa, cupping his favourite mug in one hand and paging slowly through one of the books Draco had brought back with him from Manor’s extensive library. His sharp eyes scanned the pages rapidly, and Draco arched a curious eyebrow at the sight of Harry engrossed in a text on Wizarding apiary. HIs old friend was interested in all manner of varying topics--or certainly had been at Flamel--but Draco had no idea this was one of them. 

"Interested in beekeeping, Potter?” he asked quietly, and sat himself down when he caught sight of the elevenses tray resting on their coffee table. His favourite mug was also there, along with a fresh pot of his preferred blend, plus a small plate of pastries Harry must’ve picked up along the way back from the MInistry. “You’ve never mentioned.” 

“Oh, yes, actually,” Harry nodded, looking up from the book but keeping a thumb to the page as he carefully closed it. “We learn a lot from bees, you know. They have their own language; the Ancients likely understood and used it in their runes.” 

“Ah,” Draco nodded. “If you say so, Potter.” 

Draco wasn’t scoffing. He was vaguely aware that Harry had become one of those people who knew rather a lot about rather a wide array of things. A sort of Jack-of-All person. It wasn't really a surprise to him. Harry had always been a quick study and Draco was fairly certain he’d have been a much better student at Hogwarts if he’d a half a chance to study. He’d certainly excelled in Runes at Flamel. Along with quite a few of the lectures they’d shared and several extracurricular courses. 

He gestured at the tray as he retrieved the perfectly prepared mug of tea Harry had left him. “What’s all this then? I thought we were going out?” 

“Well,” Harry said slowly, laying the book aside, and setting down his own mug, his gaze never leaving Draco’s face. “I rather wanted to talk to you. I was going to lead up to it, but I’m not so good at that, really, so I just. I just wanted to say it. Get it off my chest, so to speak. I’ve been thinking, Malfoy. Rather a lot, but especially since last night.” 

“Oh?” Alarmed, Draco brought his mug to lips, gently blowing at the steam rising. It wasn’t exactly the best way to hide his expression but it helped. He tried to arrange the visible bits of his face into something resembling calm. The last time Harry had ‘wanted to talk to you, Malfoy’ in a tone like that, he’d gone away for the best part of two years; Draco’s rapid heartbeat and vague feeling of dread was quite understandable. “So? What are you waiting for. Potter? Spit it out.” 

Harry nodded jerkily, swallowing visibly.

“I, uh, have been thinking and also I talked it over with Hermione and she agreed that I wasn't insane, and that yes, it was actually a decent idea,” Harry said, starting slowly enough but ending in a rush. “For both of us, really. I think we should listen to our damned houses, Malfoy. I think we should try it on, what they want. Go the whole route, get married, and have a kid. Kids, plural! I mean, I’d not just want one, I don’t think. One is so lonely, right? Malfoy? Malfoy, are you alright? You look...funny.” 

Draco dropped his mug. 

Rather, it tumbled out of his numb fingertips, tipsily slopping tea whilst his stunned brain was grappling with the weird selection of words Harry was spewing out of his mouth. All of it in terribly slow motion. Like the progress of chilled Golden syrup, inching down over the edges of the jar. Or the ancient motions of the stars colliding in Cygnus. 

Slowly, so slowly. Marriage. Children. He and Harry. _Harry!_

Finally parsing, Draco shot to his feet without even really seeing that his mug was free-floating, only aware in a very distant way that Harry had suspended the bloody thing with a spell, stopping it from splashing him all down his fresh robes and the sofa. He stood, valiantly striving not to wobble, and gaped wildly down at Harry. 

Harry, who just sat there, like a bloody knob, staring right back up at him, all wide-eyed, guile-less, butter-wouldn't-melt, and if he hadn’t just completely upended everything Draco knew to be true in the world. Like friendships, and expectations, and family, and, and, and--

Draco’s head spun dizzily. He felt horrid. Nauseous and weak and much as if he'd been struck by a Stunner. 

“Oh fuck--oh Merlin--you can’t-what the-fuck, Potter! Are you mad? You must be mad, you must be!”

“What? No! I’m not mad,” Harry had the nerve to deny, and even looked mildly puzzled at Draco’s perfectly reasonable accusation. “Why would you say that?” 

“Yes! Yes, you are, Harry Potter!” Scowling, Draco stamped his foot, which only produced an annoyingly muffled thud from the plush carpet. “Or--Or maybe you’re not Harry at all? Blaise, is that you? Are you pranking me again? You bloody bastard!” 

“What? No!” 

Harry--who might not be Harry but instead that insufferable jokester Zabini--jumped up and made as if to approach Draco. Draco found himself retreating, backwards, and jabbing an accusatory finger at the arse-end who’d clearly got hold of one of Harry’s hairs and was impersonating him. 

“I’ll bloody kill you, Blaise, I swear it,” he hissed. “And whichever one of you collective pack-of-arses put you up to it! It was Weasley, wasn’t it? You and bloody George never should have been re-introduced!” 

“But, but, of course I’m not Blaise, Malfoy!” Harry insisted, stopping in his tracks as Draco flapped his hands at him, warding him off. “I’m Harry--just Harry! Come on, Malfoy,” he pleaded. “Be serious.” 

“Serious?” Draco echoed incredulously. “You be serious, Potter!”

“Oh, stop, Malfoy.” 

“Fine!” 

‘Just Harry’ rolled his eyes in a very Pottery way and Draco fully relented, giving up on the notion of it not actually being Harry before him. But only slightly. If it really was Harry, then he was still banshee-shit _insane_ , proposing marriage to Draco. Bloody kids, even! 

“Fine, ‘just-Harry’, then you’ve gone bleeding mental,” Draco stated harshly. “You simply--I mean--are you? Are you really, truly, honestly telling me you want children?” 

“Well, yes,” Harry replied blankly, as if he was surprised to be even asked the question. “I’d not have said it if I wasn't, Malfoy. Um, where are you going? Because I’m not quite finished and you’ve not really said anything to the point. Like, um, you know, ‘yes’...or ‘no’?” He shrugged, blinking fast. “Well, hopefully not ‘no’, right, Malfoy?” 

“NO!” 

Flustered beyond reasoning, Draco shouted out the first thing that came into his head, going all hot and then cold, totally feverish; one thought and one only had entered his mind and he clung to it, like a Nargle to its favourite mistletoe sprig:

“No, no, no. This is nonsense, utter rot. You’re raving. You’ve cracked. The pressure has clearly been too much. Grimmauld sprouting surprise nursery floors, you blathering on about thinking your mad house elf’ was a decent roommate to you? It's too much, Harry.”

“What?”

“Look," Draco gulped hard, brows set in a determined line across his forehead. "Just look how much happier you’ve been since we’ve started sharing this flat! You needed a real friend, not a bloody jumped-up housekeep!” He flung out a helpless sort of hand gesture, reeling with unspeakable fustratration and angry, so angry at this bloody emotional Bludger his best mate was hurling at him--and fresh-dipped in a pain, a very strange and inexplicable agony. How could Harry not realize?

"But--"

“No! Be quiet, Potter! All that time away from me--from _us_ , I mean! All those extra hours you’ve out at work since you’ve come back? No, no, you’ve clearly lost your mind! You’ve gone wonky inside your stupid head and you’ve twisted all this insane nonsense of 'silly house-wants-kids' shite into your own Unspeakably-induced loneliness--just like me, except mine had gone so far as taking over even the Manor grounds, and dragged me into it, willy-nilly, sticking stupid thoughts of stupid relationships and even stupider heirs in my head like Imperius!" He stopped; caught his breath, will-eyed and panting. "Harry, I wear to Merlin I was just. Fucking. Fine. Until _you_ came home.”

“Draco!” 

“--and now I just can’t--I just-- **_no_ ** . No, and you really must excuse me now--I need--I mean, I _must_ see Pansy!" Draco stepped blindly back towards the hearth, eyes never leaving the face of his one-time enemy. "Right now, this instant. Pansy is sane and she fucking had kids because she wanted to, not because she's an all too easily influenced saphead, Potter!” 

“ _Whaaat?_ Go see Pansy? Now?” Harry exclaimed, starting forward again, clearly upset and just as clearly about to come after him, likely with the intention of stopping him.

"Oh no you don't, Harry! Don't touch me--get off!" Draco flinched, dropping his hands to his sides, clenching them tightly.

Harry halted, growling. “Fuck you, Malfoy--I wasn't going to touch you! What are you even doing--accusing me of? You’re off your nut! We’re talking here--it’s important! You can’t just leave!” 

“Oh, can I not? Well, watch me, you loony half-blind bastard!” Draco shouted, half a ginger cunt hair away from internally combusting from shock, sheer confusion and more than a few mysteriously bruised feelings. “Just fucking well watch me! Eat my fucking dust, you loon! Parkinson Hall! Pansy’s House, for fuck’s sake!!” 

He stomped fully backward into the floo, snatching at the powder jar they kept close by and dumping a cloudy shower of it over his neatly combed head in his haste to escape. Potter’s voice stopped abruptly, cut off as Draco was nearly instantly whirled away, though last Draco saw, his stupid mouth was still open and stupidly flapping. 

“Mad, mad as a Humdinger, utterly barmy as fuckall, entirely skint of grey matter, what the fuck's _wrong_ with him, Merlin!” Draco babbled to himself aloud as he twirled and flailed every which way, needing to hear the sound of his own voice at least, because very little made any sense and that did, oddly enough. “Parkinson Hall--bloody Parkinson Hall, _could we just_?!”


End file.
